


You Will Always Find Love

by NuMo



Series: Timey-wimey shenanigans in the Warehouse [2]
Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: F/F, Timey-Wimey shenanigans, continuation of timey-wimey shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-09
Updated: 2018-09-14
Packaged: 2019-05-20 04:21:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 40,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14887538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NuMo/pseuds/NuMo
Summary: This is a sequel to my storyAt the Heart of the Paradox. It doesn't work without having read that one.September 1940. In the TARDIS orbiting Earth, Myka "Ophie" Bering takes a last look at the blue marble. The Doctor has reassured her that her lived memories won't vanish when she does, but what does that even mean?Here's the answer. Technically, this story wouldn't be possible without the Doctor. Since they don't appear, though, I'm not tagging them.





	1. Prologue and Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Not my characters, just my story about them. Beta'ed by the wonderful [Faerirose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Faerirose)! All remaining mistakes are my own.

# Prologue

“Agent Wells, can you hear me? … Helena?”

“Irene? Irene! Is… is that really you?”

“Indeed it is. It’s good to hear your voice.”

“Likewise. Absolutely and happily reciprocated. How come you can speak with me? An artefact?”

“Naturally. I’ve been searching for a way to talk to you ever since you were bronzed.”

“… Oh. You have?”

“Of course I have. You might not have pondered any way to make your situation more bearable, but I have. You won’t be alone; not if I can help it. And I can.”

“I… you… oh. Well. You’re right, I never thought of that. Silly of me, I suppose.”

“Not silly – just very much in character, I’d say.”

“Thank you ever so much.”

“You’re welcome. After you were bronzed, I went through every artefact in the Warehouse that looked as though it would allow me to talk to you. None of them were successful, though, so I took to testing any new ones that my agents retrieved. They obtained an artefact two weeks ago that seemed promising; a telephone used by the Samaritans, a British organization that aims to save people from committing suicide by offering emotional support via a telephone call.”

“A noble endeavour – I take it they are not missing this particular telephone, though, are they?”

“Of course not. We sent two agents to retrieve this telephone when the Samaritans updated their offices in order to better handle the number of calls they were getting. The agents posed as Post Office employees and suggested replacing this unit with a newer one, which as luck would have it they had brought with them.”

“How fortunate.”

“Indeed. I’ve been testing it since they brought it back, and came to the conclusion that its use in speaking to you bears no risk for either of us.”

“Well, that is heartening. … Speaking of two weeks ago – Irene, what year is it? I’m afraid I have lost track.”

“It is 1957. March 23 to be exact.”

“1957! So much must have happened – you have to tell me everything.”

“That is why I’m here.”

“And you _must_ come back – promise me you will come back.”

“Of course I will. Not every day; that would draw too much attention. But as often as I can.”

“Anything, anything at all, as long as I know I won’t be…”

“I understand. The last sixteen years can’t have been easy, and you’ve got some decades ahead still. I’ll do my best to make them more bearable.”

“Thank you, Irene. So very much. You don’t know how much that means to me.”

“I have an inkling. Now, as to what happened since 1941…”  
 

* * *

# Chapter 1

“Hello, my love.” Helena Wells sighed, dragged the visitor’s chair into a better position, and sat down next to the bed. On it, pale and unmoving, lay Myka Ophelia Bering, her brain hard at work to reconfigure itself, or so the Doctor had announced. Not a medical doctor – although Doctor Calder was around the Bed and Breakfast, probably looking after Claudia Donovan at the moment – but _the_ Doctor, an alien traveling time and space in a device that looked, of all things, like the blue police call boxes Helena remembered seeing being installed in Victorian London. More than seven decades ago, the Doctor had offered to three time-displaced Warehouse agents that their memories would not die; that he could give them to their different timeline counterparts. He had warned that it would not be easy, that there might be the exact side effects that Helena and Doctor Calder and the rest of the Warehouse team was observing right now; headaches, confusion, extended phases of sleep, while the brain attempted to integrate the new information. 

That warning had been the stated reason for Arthur Nielsen to decline the offer; he was not the youngest after all, he had said, and did not care for headaches and confusion, thank you very much. While Claudia Donovan had inevitably teased him about naps, Helena privately surmised, however, that the old agent’s reasoning had been a different one; that the memories he had accumulated in the last days before the Doctor had picked him up were memories Arthur Nielsen could happily do without. Losing two agents was bad enough; losing the Warehouse and its Caretaker on top of that? And then being offered to live another version of your life free from those memories?

In a way, Helena mused, she was doing the same thing. Myka – Ophie, Helena corrected herself; the time-displaced agent she had encountered in London, 1940, not the woman lying in front of her – had told Helena the tale of the Helena she knew. Her daughter dead, undeniably, irreparably dead; bronzed for over a century for causing the death of a fellow agent; so overcome with grief and anger that she had tried to bring about an apocalypse. No, Helena could not fault Artie for his choice, as she would have made the exact same one in his stead.

“The Doctor said,” she addressed the sleeping figure on the bed, “that it would help your recovery to hear about things as they proceeded in _this_ timeline while you’re asleep, so that your brain has an easier time sorting them from what happened in the other timeline.” She chuckled quietly and rolled her eyes. Truly reality was stranger than fiction sometimes. “I am here to do just that, as Artie is over in the next room to do Claudia the same service.” She arranged the things she had brought with her – water, snacks, a handkerchief: this would be a long stay, after all – and shifted until she sat comfortable. “I don’t have your enviable memory, of course, but I shall do my best to remember events as and when they happened. Let us start at the beginning of the divergence, shall we?”

-_-_-

The time machine was slowly winding down. Everything seemed in order. I released a long-held breath in relief. My heart was, as a matter of fact, _not_ beating in my throat, but that was simply a result of still wearing the Imperceptor Vest, which precluded such effects until the wearer took it off – a moment I quite, quite dreaded. I had Irene’s reassurance that the Caretaker would explain my presence and the part I was playing in MacPherson’s plans to the agents and the Regents of Warehouse 13. But reassurances, I’ve always thought, are mere puffs of air until acted upon, and an opportunity for that had not come about yet, or so Irene had told me.

My part was to close the time loop _here_ that had opened a few days ago in a different timeline, when a different MacPherson had unbronzed a different Helena Wells. He had then presented _that_ Helena Wells with plans to improve upon her time machine by incorporating several artefacts, allowing for time travel that lasted for longer periods than twenty-two hours and nineteen minutes. Allowing for the time traveller to actually wreak changes on the time he or she found him- or herself in. Quite clever, his improvements, although it pains me to say so.

MacPherson had then used the thusly improved time machine with the same intent he apparently always had, from what I hear – to gain unfettered access to artefacts for his own advantages. He had brought the other version of me around to his plans with a promise: to save her daughter from death, the one thing that she had not been able to do. If I had been her – and during my first time in the bronze, I _had_ been her, more or less – I would have jumped at the chance. I assume she did, too. So MacPherson went back to the late nineteenth century, into the body of the man who would, a few years later, become head of the Regents of Warehouse 12. He saved Christina, and then conveniently neglected to tell me so. 

Yes, this is where I come in. I presume he planned to use Christina as a trump card – but his deception had been his downfall, as is often the case. Despondent and grieving, I started to research the possibilities of time travel but, and that was when the time loop started to fray, I did not, in fact, _build_ a functional time machine. If you asked me the reason, I can only point to my dear friends, Caturanga and Wolcott, who both frequently kept me company and tried, each in their own way, to lighten my darkness. But no more of that; let us continue with the tale of MacPherson in the Warehouse. 

So – when I was bronzed for allegedly causing Wolly’s death, I had not built a time machine. I hadn’t even started to. That was the moment when the time loop fractured. Or possibly it happened when the Doctor’s TARDIS appeared in the observatory where Wolly and I were fighting Crowley and his cads, and the Doctor saved Wolly’s life. The Doctor isn’t sure, and he _is_ the expert. At least he felt guilty enough to try and set things right again. And then, from what he said, he was interrupted by Arthur Nielsen trying to use the Astrolabe, which the TARDIS picked up on somehow. When the Doctor realized that both incidents were somewhat connected by the presence of my humble self, he came up with a plan to right both matters at the same time. That would be where _you_ come in, my love; or rather, the version of you whose memories your brain is processing right now. 

The Doctor’s plan depended in large part on _this_ MacPherson to travel back in time to the late nineteenth century and thus close the loop once more. Did I know, as I monitored his vitals and generally hovered over him, that even though he would save my daughter, he would then keep that fact from me? Oh yes. But I also knew that as punishment he would be yanked from the body he was occupying, at precisely 6pm on September 7th, 1940; he would return to Warehouse 13, and he would face justice. I knew because I had been _there_ , on September 7th, 1940 – _and_ because that was how I had programmed the time machine precisely eighteen minutes ago. He did not think _that_ part of it through, did he.

Yes, I might have written instructions on how to rig the time machine correctly instead of going into the Bronze again to do it in person. In fact, that had been the plan. I had no love for the bronze, of course I didn’t. But notes and instructions are different from actual personal expertise, and, though it hurts me to admit it, living together with an eight-year-old daughter is different from living together with a daughter who had surpassed me in years actively lived, and was a mother and grandmother to boot. Besides, time might have fractured yet again if MacPherson didn’t have a Helena Wells to unbronze. And so, in the early days of 1941, I stepped into the bronze apparatus again. Unlike in 1893, however, I did so voluntarily, with the scent of apples in my nose and with a spring in my step that was fuelled by two very distinct but cherished facts: that my daughter was alive and well, and that the future in which I would find myself had female Warehouse agents, one specific female Warehouse agent in particular.

I had spent barely two weeks in the presence of Myka “Ophie” Bering – but she was a promise, a vision, a prospect that pulled me to the future like a salmon pulled thousands of miles across the ocean back to the creek where she hatched. Or is that too pat a metaphor? In any case, let us return to the story. 

As if thinking about you had called you to me, two familiar faces rounded the corner of the shelf that was supposed to hide MacPherson, myself, and the time machine from prying eyes. Two weapons pointed their nozzles at me; two sets of eyes took in the scene before them.

“Step away from the machine,” you said sharply, and “Take off that vest,” your partner added. 

I slowly raised my hands. I knew the two of you would not be predisposed to believe me – I _had_ fooled you in my own house mere days before this, and then had broken into yours. Well, technically your _Ware_ house, but who is going to argue with a sentence structure as nice as that?

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” I replied, looking at Pete Lattimer to signal that it was _his_ command I was refusing to obey. I did take a couple of steps away from the machine, but I did so in a way that still afforded me a clear view of its display. It was still doing what it should. This was the crucial point, after all. This was why I had chosen such a remote and relatively inactive part of the Warehouse to set up the time machine. It needed to continue running without disturbances, until MacPherson returned to his body to fully close the time loop, and to face justice – which would be in just under three hours, according to my calculations. 

Very nearly seventy years in Bronze had given me ample time to think of all the ways in which I would exact my revenge upon him, and then more time to realize that if humanity was to better itself in the future, it started with myself in the present. No, I had vowed to myself in the silence of the Bronze, I would _not_ kill MacPherson. I would not harm a hair on his body, however much my baser instincts yelled for his blood, after all the suffering he had caused me and the people I held dear. I had furthered his plan because it had been the necessary thing to do, and I would bring him back here to face the Regents because it was the _right_ thing to do. 

A faint waft of air brought a familiar smell to my nose, and I smiled inwardly. The Warehouse approved. I don’t know whether that was because I was taking ‘the high road’, as you Americans put it, or whether the Warehouse truly wanted to see a more humane notion of justice served – I don’t think that the Warehouse is that noble. But I certainly took the reassurance that the scent of apples brought with it. I _was_ doing the right thing; the Warehouse was telling me so.

One of the changes that I _had_ made to MacPherson’s improvements to my time machine was designed to facilitate his return not in real time (which would have meant forty-odd years of the time machine’s continued smooth operation), but in a compressed time frame. Quite ingenious, if I say so myself. My calculations showed it should be no more than two hours and fifty-five minutes now, but as I hadn’t had time to test that fully before MacPherson had insisted to be strapped in, I couldn’t be as certain as I’d have liked. No matter if three hours or forty years, though, it was imperative that I remain close to monitor the apparatus until MacPherson’s successful return. And that, in turn, meant that until then, taking off the Imperceptor Vest was unthinkable. Unfortunately, you and Pete seemed to be in no mood to listen to lengthy explanations at this point as to why I couldn’t, _wouldn’t_ do as Pete had ordered me.

“The Imperceptor Vest, as you have doubtlessly found out by now,” I told the two of you, “allows the wearer to move fast enough to be unperceivable. However, as soon as it is taken off – not deactivated, but taken off – the wearer will feel the cost of that speed, to wit: a dramatically increased metabolism and intense weariness for the foreseeable future.” 

Pete Lattimer clearly did not understand my words, alas. You did, though, of course.

“So, what, your metabolism will use up your body’s energy faster than usual and… and then what, you’ll faint?” you asked with a frown. “And then be tired for a while? Sounds acceptable to me,” you added, head tilted quite aggressively, weapon never wavering. You’re quite fetching over the barrel of a gun, did you know that?

“Yeah, lady,” Pete added, “it’s not like you’re in our good books, you know? Author or not.” Proud of his pun, he looked over at you with a winning grin, which you, focused on me as you were, did not acknowledge.

This would be an auspicious time for Irene to appear, I thought. Until then, I knew I’d have to keep the two of you talking, stalling for time until MacPherson safely returned. “I realize that, Agent Lattimer,” I said with as much sincerity as I could muster. Imperceptor Vest or not, I _was_ getting weary. I hadn’t slept more than twenty hours since being unbronzed, only five of which had been consecutive. This time, unlike in 1940, there’d been no Doctor to ‘syphon off the worst’ of the unbronzing aftereffects with his sonic screwdriver. Best not to dwell on this, though; the memories are unpleasant, to say the least. “I also fully realize how this must look,” I went on, “however, I assure you that what I am doing is in the Warehouse’s best interest.”

Your eyebrows shot to your hairline at that, and Pete Lattimer scoffed. 

“You don’t expect us to believe that, do you?” you asked, still pointing your gun straight at me. 

“Frankly, I-”

And then, “ _How_ many _times_ have I _told_ you!” I heard Arthur Nielsen’s voice approaching rapidly. I whirled around to talk to him, but- “You _don’t_ let them-” alternating current wrapped itself around my body, and in that split second I still had time enough to wonder in which ways Tesla’s energy would wreak havoc on me while I was wearing the Imperceptor Vest, “- _monologue_!!” And then everything turned dark.


	2. Chapter 2

Back in the present, Helena woke to flooding sunshine, and to hazel eyes looking at her. She squinted her eyes almost closed against the brightness, muzzily trying to figure out who those eyes belonged to. They seemed so sad…

“Ophie?” she murmured questioningly.

Lids slid down and eyebrows rose as if in supplication. “Georgie.” It was a soft hiss, a barely audible breath. Her eyebrows tensing into a frown, Ophie shook her head at what she was seeing. “What… how on… _why_ are you…” 

Helena flinched at the raw, pained incredulity in Ophie’s voice. Tense and tentative, she raised herself on an elbow. “That,” she said, willing sleep out of her thoughts, “is a long story.” She took a closer look at Ophie’s face – and it was most definitely Ophie. Her expression was at once more guarded, more brittle, and more vulnerable than Myka’s had ever been around Helena. “Are you alright, though?” Helena asked. “Any headaches? Dizziness? Nausea?”

Thankfully, Ophie allowed the deviation from topic. She paused for a moment – ‘running internal diagnostics’, as Helena had learned to call this from Claudia and Pete – then shook her head again. “I’m confused, mostly,” she said. “It… the Doctor… he… it really worked, then?”

Helena took a breath and released it slowly. “Yes.” She raised her hand towards Ophie’s cheek, but withdrew it hastily when Ophie shuddered and averted her face. “I’m sorry,” Helena said, her hand falling back to the mattress. “Should I… would you like me to leave?”

“No!” The reply came immediately and wildly. “No,” Ophie repeated more softly. “I, um…” she gathered the sheets around herself and sat up – a move that distanced her from Helena, but not a move that could be called fleeing. _Coping_ , Helena thought. And with good reason – Ophie had not had the hint of an idea, not a single reason to think that she would encounter Helena, any Helena, much less _this_ Helena, in the 21st century. 

“This is quite a lot to take in, isn’t it,” Helena said carefully. When Ophie nodded mutely, she continued, “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Why are you here?” the answering question came immediately. “ _How_ are you here? You didn’t… Georgie, please tell me you…” Ophie shook her head in grim denial. “You went back into the Bronze, didn’t you.”

It wasn’t a question, but it still needed an answer. Helena released her breath slowly. 

-_-_-

“Helena, are you quite certain this is a good idea?” 

I sighed. This was about the tenth time Wolly had asked me this, and we weren’t even out of the Cotswolds yet. “It might not be, Wolly, but it’s my decision.” This, too, was about the tenth time that those words left my mouth. 

He sighed – for about the twentieth time. “I… I _have_ to ask you this, you see; if only for my peace of mind. It’s a bit… personal, I suppose, but since this is my last chance…”

“Out with it.”

“This isn’t about…” He cleared his throat. “You know. Agent Bering. Is it?” He cast me a nervous glance, then fastened his eyes on the road again. His knuckles around the steering wheel were white. 

I briefly pondered brushing his question off – personal indeed. But there had been such vulnerability in the brief moment that his eyes hat met mine that I decided to be honest with him. “Yes and no, Wolly. In more ways than one.”

He swore under his breath. “Now what on Earth is that supposed to mean?”

I leaned my head against the window, staring at the rainy, dusky landscape, seeing not the road to Oxford, but a face with the saddest, most fatalistically yearning eyes I’d ever seen. “I’m not basing my decision to be bronzed for seventy years on a fortnight’s worth of fling, my friend,” I told him at last. “If that’s what has you so worried.” I threw him a quick smile, then resumed my unseeing watch of the outside again. Cars. Gasoline! Where he had found it, in a country choked by rationing, I did not know and had not asked. I was grateful that he had agreed to take me to London, intrigued by how far the combustion engine had come, but I was also digressing from topic. “Wolly, this world, this age… This _war_.” I gestured vaguely at the sky, blessedly free from aeroplanes dropping bombs, here in the hills. “And you, and my Christina…” I couldn’t go on. 

He detached one hand from the wheel to pat my wrist somewhat awkwardly. “I do understand that. Truly, I do. We’ve all gone on with our lives, made a living for ourselves that is as far removed from the mystique of the Warehouse as can be. Apple farmers!” He laughed, once, then his face fell. “We tried to make room for you in that life; you do know that, don’t you?”

I nodded, taking a deep breath. “I do, and I appreciate the lengths you and Christina went to for that.” My jaw worked for a moment. When I didn’t go on, he did. 

“It’s not the same, is it.”

“No,” I exhaled, “and it never will be. I don’t see how it could.”

“And that’s why you’re leaving.”

“Part of it,” I told the window. We both fell silent as we passed through Cirencester. Buildings and vehicles caught my eyes; demonstrating again how far the world had moved ahead, as if Gloucester’s aviation industry hadn’t hammered that point home enough.

“This isn’t far enough into the future for you, is it?” Wolly asked with a grim chuckle. “I doubt that the twenty-first century will be much less messy.” He looked over at me again. “People are people, and people make messes,” he said softly. “And just like there are messes everywhere, there’s love everywhere too.” Turning his eyes to the road again, he huffed a sigh. “You _can_ make a life for yourself here, you know. More than ever before. Women have been doing well for themselves – they run all sorts of businesses, do all kinds of things-” 

“Because the men are off at war, Wolly,” I interrupted him brusquely, “you know that. I don’t doubt that things are going to go ‘back to normal’ once they’re back.” I won’t deny that my voice dripped with acid at the thought. “‘Thanks for holding the fort, dear, now be a darling and go back to the kitchen, will you?’” I added darkly. 

“Now come on-” 

“No!” I interrupted him. It was dark enough now that I couldn’t see much of the landscape anymore, and still I kept my eyes straight ahead. “All might be fair in love and war, but after the war is over, so are the exceptional circumstances. Mark my words.” I won’t deny that I brooded for a bit then, and he didn’t interrupt me. “She was a Warehouse agent, Wolly,” I said softly after a while. “And so was young Claudia Donovan. And from what she told me, no one batted an eye over that.” Still he kept his silence. “She didn’t have to fight to be recognized, to be respected. She didn’t have trouble getting an education, or joining the law enforcement agency that protects the American President. Don’t you see? That, _that_ is progress. And that’s what I mean when I say that no, it isn’t just about her. It’s about me too, Wolly. Tell me – could I walk into a university here and now, and announce that I’m there to get a…” I cast around for a subject, “a physics degree, and not be laughed at and shown the door?” 

“Engineering, I’d say,” he gave back lightly, then sighed. “I _understand_ , Helena. Really I do. I simply wanted to rule out-” he broke off.

“What.” I snapped when he didn’t go on.

He tapped his fingers on the wheel for a moment. “Don’t take this the wrong way, alright?”

“What?” I guess I sounded ever so slightly ominous, because he shot me a quick, worried glance. 

“You do tend to… obsess about things,” he said finally. “Rush into them headlong, without much deliberation.”

I bit back my impulse to snap at him. He was right, after all – four decades in Bronze had offered me ample time to think, especially about my shortcomings. “This is not one of those situations, Wolly.”

“Isn’t it?” His tone was not challenging, simply patient. “Are you sure of that, yourself?”

“I am,” I said stonily. 

“From what I understand, it won’t even be her that you’ll be meeting, in the future. Even if everything goes right.”

“I know!” The force of my words surprised even me. “I know,” I repeated more quietly, trying to calm my thoughts. “I’ve known from the beginning.”

“For all you know, she might be married when you meet. Or-” 

“I _know_ , Wolly!” I pinched the bridge of my nose, wishing he’d drop the matter. 

“All I’m saying is it wouldn’t be fair to…” he gestured vaguely, then dropped his hand, if not the topic. “Look, I know you and Agent Bering had… an understanding. And that’s fine!” he hurried to add. “I really would wish for you to waltz into the future and find that again with _that_ Agent Bering. But…” he cast around for words. “You’ll have seventy years, stuck with no one but yourself for company, to obsess about her, imagine how it’ll be when you meet her, making up stories how you’ll flirt with her, charm her-”

“I’m not going to-” I started to protest, but his raised hand stopped me.

“Promise,” he demanded, and I was forcibly reminded of you then, Ophie. I laughed weakly, even, and he stomped on the brake so hard my head almost hit the windscreen. When the car had come to a full halt, he turned to me. “Promise, or I’ll turn this car around,” he repeated. “It won’t do you any good, and it would be a disservice to a Myka Bering that you don’t even know.”

“I…” In the car’s darkness, the lines of his face had almost disappeared. And yet he wasn’t my young apprentice anymore, not the blushing, bamboozled boy he’d been when he had been partnered with me. He was the friend that I’d mourned for forty years; the friend I thought had died because of my negligence and ineptitude; the friend who had taken care of my daughter for four decades in my stead. He took my hands in his own and did me the courtesy of ignoring how my eyes suddenly welled with tears. 

“You are my friend, Helena, and I wish you every last bit of happiness,” he said gently, squeezing my fingers. “I just want to try to make sure you won’t sabotage yourself. That’s why I’m asking you not to fantasize or imagine or plot. Don’t assume you know how things will unfurl – don’t assume you know the Agent Bering you’re going to encounter. Keep an open mind, and let things play out as they will. Promise me that, Helena, alright?”

I fought for breath. “Not those things that we know need to happen,” I managed. 

“Of course not,” he replied immediately. “Don’t try to wiggle out of this. Promise.”

“I promise,” I said, my voice finally firm enough to lend credence to my words. After a moment, I added, “thank you.”

He nodded. “Don’t mention it,” he said, let go of my hands, and only spoke of lighter matters as we made our way to London.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this chapter contains a description of someone being hit by a grappler. I personally don't think it's _graphic_ \- more of a mention than a description, and certainly not in detail, but your mileage might vary, so proceed with caution if that kind of idea makes you feel uncomfortable.

“So you… you went in the Bronzer again? Voluntarily?”

Helena nodded. “It truly is my time machine,” she said with a small smile. “And I worked very hard to keep my promise to Wolly.”

Ophie smiled wanly. “It was a good one,” she said after a while. “I mean… the me who ran into you in London was… very different from who I am now.” Her brows wrinkled. “Did we… did we even meet in London? Did that happen?” The frown deepened. “You… did you tell me about what happened afterwards while I was sleeping?”

“I did.” Helena swallowed. “Did that… work? Did it help?”

It was Ophie who took a deep breath now. She held it for several seconds, and released it slowly and nodded. “It did. I…” the frown flitted across her face again, but didn’t settle. “It’s getting a bit easier to tell my memories apart from… um, hers.”

“Myka’s?” Helena suggested.

Ophie gave a little sideways nod-and-shrug combination. “I guess that’ll work again,” she said. Suddenly, she gave a colossal yawn. “Whoa,” she murmured when it had run its course.

“Are you tired?” Helena asked immediately.

Ophie shook her head. “Actually, I’m hungry more than anything,” she replied with a surprised twist to her mouth. 

“I’ll ask Leena to bring us something.” Helena stood up and walked over to the door. “Any requests?” she asked, standing on the threshold.

“Something healthy,” Ophie said, “and if she has baked anything, I wouldn’t say no to dessert.”

Helena sketched a bow. “As you wish,” she smiled. 

“And you’ll fill me in on what the Doctor said,” Ophie called after her.

When Ophie had eaten her stir-fry and three cranberry oatmeal cookies, she shook the crumbs off the sheets and settled back against the headboard. “So,” she said. “You’re here to recount to me what happened, so that I can make sense of it.”

Helena nodded. “I wish I had your memory,” she added.

Ophie waved the comment away. “Tell me about Egypt,” she said firmly. 

“Egypt!” Helena’s eyebrows shot upwards. “But-”

“Egypt,” Ophie repeated with a stern gaze. One corner of her mouth twitched into the smallest of smiles. “You can tell me about Tamalpais and Moscow and the rest of it later.” Her eyes wandered over the room and the bed that had both obviously been shared for a while, and her smile deepened slightly. “I assume there is something to tell me about Tamalpais and Moscow and the rest of it.” Her eyes met Helena’s again. “First, though, Egypt.”

Helena sighed. “Egypt.” She dreaded this particular part of her tale.

Some of that dread must have seeped into her voice, because Ophie tilted her head towards her. “Please?” It was far more of a gentle request than her first demand had been.

Helena sat back in her chair, glad that she hadn’t eaten. This was not an easy story to stomach. Not Egypt.

Because Egypt was the closest she had come to knowing how Ophie’s Helena must have felt. 

-_-_-

Knowing what I knew, what you had told me about your Helena’s betrayal, I passed all of my notes and research on Warehouse 2 to Irene Frederic before I went into the Bronze in 1941, to do with as she saw fit. Apart from my counterpart’s abominable behaviour to you in particular, the greatest threat of Warehouse 2 was to Warehouse 12 and 13’s Caretaker, after all. 

And then, in 2010, a few weeks after my debronzing, Irene appeared in the aisle where I was doing inventory. “Agent Wells, we have a problem,” she told me, handing me a stack of papers. All drawings, all of the same thing. I looked up at her, my mouth suddenly dry. The Minoan Trident’s outer prongs.

“Warehouse 2,” I breathed. 

“Indeed.” Irene nodded. “Leena told me about nightmares and visions she’d been having; leftovers of James MacPherson controlling her mind. I asked her if there was anything in particular that she could tell me about. This is what she gave me.”

“MacPherson found my notes, then?” I tried to keep the criticism out of my voice. She had had the chance to keep them hidden well enough – unless she knew, unless the Doctor had told her, that just like Moscow and Tamalpais, the Reawakening of Warehouse 2 had to happen.

“So it would seem,” the Caretaker said gravely, and I knew then that I would never know what she and the Doctor had talked about. 

There was one obstacle, though, both for MacPherson and for us: while my counterpart never told you, Ophie, where it actually was that she found the prongs of the trident, I myself had never even looked for them. So we couldn’t simply go to Paris for a snag and bag, as Pete so succinctly puts it. Therefore, Irene asked me to collaborate with Benedict Valda, and Adwin Kosan opened the Regents’ coffers to fund our research. 

Nevertheless, it took Valda and I weeks to make any headway in our search. And in the meantime, a team of student archaeologists, sent out by James MacPherson, arrived at the entrance of Warehouse 2, setting off the same chain of events that you remember – but with a different outcome. 

After Pete solved the mind puzzle and you – excuse me, _Myka_ – promised to buy him pancakes for a year, we arrived at the Fireblades Trap. You – actually you this time – had told me about Mrs. Frederic’s warning that one must die, but Valda and I had had time enough to consult a specialist for ancient Demotic, who assured us that Mrs. Frederic’s phrase could just as well be translated to “one does not go forth” or “one does things very differently from the others” or a number of other possible meanings – written and spoken Demotic diverged from one another over time, so there is sometimes little correla- oh, of course you know all that. I shall move on, then. 

With all this in mind, I turned to Valda and said: “Why don’t you stay behind, then? Attempt to leave this place, and contact Arthur.” 

He shot me the dirtiest look I’d ever gotten from an East End boy, and that’s saying something. Then again, I realized I had little basis to complain, seeing as I would get to go further into the ‘adventure’ and he wouldn’t – even if, in hindsight, the adventure turned out to be more horrific than exhilarating. But you can’t know that in advance, can you? Unless you have insider knowledge from the future, of course. So it took some arguing, which I ended by pulling my grappler, swapping the blunt bronze tip for the pointed steel one, and shooting it across the traps to embed itself deeply into the opposite wall.

As I started to knot the grappler body to convenient slots in the wall behind us, I told him, “Someone needs to detach it after the three of us,” and I pointed to Pete, Myka and myself, “are on the other side. I don’t intend to leave it behind; it’s come in useful before and I daresay it will again.”

He did agree in the end, but was phenomenally grouchy about it. Of course I couldn’t tell him that I was saving his life by insisting he stay behind – not at the time, anyway. Possibly now that… well. Back to the story. Valda gave Pete a necklace with an ancient pendant on it, imparted instructions to us all about the water bearer, and watched us cross the traps. He did untie the grappler cable, and then he turned to the wall, flapping his hand at us to tell us to move on while he figured out what the hieroglyphs in front of him might be hiding about getting back out.

As you recall, the soul puzzle was next. And as before, Myka saved us all. We – you and I – never spoke of what you or the other Helena had seen in the puzzle, and somehow I hadn’t wanted to enquire from Myka what the Medusa had shown her – not even much later. I daresay that what the puzzle showed me was quite different from what it had shown my counterpart, but I guess we’ll never know. 

Christina, yes. Of course it showed her Christina, but in which way? In which setting? And were you part of her happiest place as well? Of course you were in my hallucination, darling – I _had_ been greatly looking forward to seeing you again when I went into the Bronze, and by that time, Myka and I had formed an… understanding of our own, if fairly recently. 

Well, you didn’t want me to talk about Moscow just yet, so you’ll just have to wait for that part.

Meanwhile, Pete, Myka, and I stood in the antechamber to Warehouse 2, staring at a glowing ball of energy, wondering how to shut it off. I, of course, knew from your accounts what had to happen, but I had no more of an idea of where to go to bring that about than Myka and Pete did. On top of that, this was yet another situation in which I couldn’t appear to be more knowledgeable than my fellow agents without arousing suspicion. Myka had already questioned me about my involvement in Moscow; I did not want a repetition of that. It was Pete who found the Wall of Stars, and Pete who saved the day and Mrs. Frederic. And yet as he did so, he activated the second stage of Warehouse 2’s burial, and sand began to pour in on us. 

It was Myka who saw the hatch in the ceiling, and Myka who found the Wings of Daedalus. And it was Myka who insisted that Pete take me up to the hatch first.

“Someone has to get it open, and you’re the smartest one with mechanisms.” She grinned at me. “I’ve seen you pick locks before. And with Valda gone, you’re the resident expert. So get up there,” her arm shot up, pointing, “and get that hatch open.” What was I to do? I had severe misgivings – not about being the cleverest, but about Daedalus’ Wings. In the heat of the moment, though, I couldn’t remember why they sounded so ominous, and then I was clinging to Pete’s back, halfway up to the hatch already. 

I fired the grappler into the hatch’s enclosing stones, knotted a crude loop into its cord, tested its attachment gingerly, and then cautiously stepped my foot into the loop. I wrapped its cable around my left arm a few times, nodded to Pete that he was good to go, and then did my best to understand the mechanism of the golden handle. Meanwhile, Pete swooped down to where Myka had climbed onto a pillar. It was then that Daedalus’ tale came back to me, and I looked down at Pete and Myka to yell out a warning. 

“Using these wings, Daedalus lost what was dearest to him – his son! For heaven’s sake, be careful, Pete!!” And then light and sand blinded me as the hatch opened – not through something I had done, but I didn’t stop to question that, not when I heard you cry out the way you did then. I turned around again to look down at you, spluttering and coughing, trying to shake the sand out of my eyes. Someone was grabbing me, hoisting me up even though the grappler cable – luckily still attached – tugged on my other arm. When the grappler came loose, I untangled myself, found my feet and slapped their hands away, flinging myself down flat beside the hatch again to check how you were doing. 

“HG!!” Pete yelled from below somewhere, sounding thankfully close through the pouring sand. “I… I’m losing her! Myka, oh my God, Myka, hang on! Hang on!!” This time, _you_ screamed, and all of a sudden, I was able to see again – only to see you tumble away from me while Pete clung to the open hatch next to me. “Do something!!” he yelled at me.

And I did the only thing that made sense to me at the time. I took my grappler, aimed and, as Pete shouted out in alarm, pulled the trigger. 

An instant later, he realized what I was doing. He wrapped his hands around mine and around the barrel of the grappler as the roped arrow made its way down to you. I hissed at him in anger, not knowing if his intervention had fouled my aim, but it was too late – I clearly heard the thwack as the arrow hit you, clearly felt the sudden lurch as the cable took your weight. If Pete hadn’t had his hands around mine, I never would have kept hold of the grappler. I would have lost you. I…

No, I’m… I’m alright. And it… it wasn’t you. It was Myka. This world’s Myka, who I’d come to love more than life itself. And she was… dangling… from my grappler, and I didn’t know if…

I slowly became aware of Pete shouting at me. “-up, we gotta get her up, HG!! How do you make this thing pull up?” Someone else was shaking my shoulders. I shook myself free of them and of my stupor, found the rewind trigger, and pulled it. 

Out of the sands you rose, covered in dust except for a blooming patch of red on your shoulder. No, yes, I’m sorry, not you. _Myka_. I will keep better track, I promise. 

I had hit her, the doctors at As Salam later told me, in one of the best possible spots for the purpose – the arrow had smashed through her right shoulder blade, but it had not damaged her lung. It had even missed the axillary artery. “A fine shot,” one of them called it, and clapped me on the shoulder. Had I not been completely numbed by what had happened, I might have broken his arm. To start with.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. 

It had been Valda who’d found a way out of the front entrance of Warehouse 2, and who had alerted not only Artie, Claudia and Irene, but Cairo’s best international hospital as well. He’d anticipated we’d need medical assistance, and had ordered a helicopter to our coordinates as soon as he’d gotten off the phone with Artie. It had been he who had then found the hatch, he who’d blown it open when he heard us on the other side. 

It had been sheer luck that his explosive had gone off on the other side from where I’d been clinging to the stones. 

And despite what that doctor said and what Pete thinks to this day, it had been sheer luck that my grappler saved Myka. I know I’m a good shot with it, but Myka was tumbling, obscured by falling sand, and I had only the blink of an eye to get even an idea of where she was before I pulled the trigger. It had been instinct, gut feeling, and more good luck than a meadow of four-leafed clovers could bestow, down to the fact that I’d swapped tips earlier – the blunt one, of course, would not have worked. 

Myka was alive.

Sheer. Luck.

But Myka was alive.

I had a hard time coming to terms with everything, though, and it took Pete to snap me out of it. 

“You okay?” he asked when he sat down next to me in the hospital corridor. Valda had gone off to handle some kind of bureaucracy hiccup or other, Myka was in surgery, and Pete and I were waiting for the result. 

I don’t even know if it was the first, the fifth or the twentieth time that he asked me. I’d shut down the moment I’d seen Myka being pulled through the hatch, and was only just beginning to resurface from nightmares of seeing the grappler arrow embedded in Myka’s throat, her heart, of it missing her entirely; you name it. 

As it was, I could only shake my head mutely. If I knew anything at all in that moment, it was that I was not okay; nowhere near a state that could be described as ‘okay.’ It was then that I felt his hand gripping my arm. 

“Hey hey hey,” he said, softly, in that inimitable way of his. “She’s gonna be okay, HG, alright? You saved her life, okay?”

“I shot her!” I flared up at him. 

“Yes, you did,” he replied, calm as you please. “And that saved her life.”

“But I shot her!” 

“Dude, HG. Yes, you did shoot her, but you know what? That happens in our line of work.” He let go of my arm and propped his elbows on his thighs, running his hands over his face. Then he looked at me again with sombre eyes. “Hey, look, you know I served, right? And while I never had to do what you did, I got buddies who did. You know, shoot at a brother or sister in arms to save their life.” He leaned back in his chair and sighed. “It happens, and it’s never easy, and sometimes it goes wrong and that’s… just… awful. But when it works, it works, and a life is saved, okay? It’s just… it’s one of those moments when you gotta do what you gotta do. And you did, HG. Okay? You did, and you did well, and you saved Myka’s life.” On his last words, he’d turned to me again, and emphasized them by poking my thigh three times. “She’s alive, and she’s gonna be okay, and you’re gonna be okay, too.”

“But I shot her.” This time, I could only manage a whisper. How could we be okay when I’d shot her?

Pete actually laughed. “You sure did, and she sure is never gonna let you live it down,” he said. “I mean, from where you got her, I’m pretty sure she’s gonna be out of commission for a bit while she gets better, and boy does she ever hate that.” He slowly shook his head, wincing sympathetically. “I mean I look forward to not being at the receiving end of her punches – or do you think she punches with her left, too?” I had no energy nor will to spare to answer such a ridiculous question, so after a while, he went on, “C’mon, HG, seriously now. She will be okay. Don’t get your knickers in a twist, alright?”

And his poor imitation of a British accent, of all things, was what snapped me out of my fugue. I glared at him. “My knickers are none of your business.”

“Aaand she’s back!” He punched the air, grinning widely. “I know whose business your knickers are, though!” And he began to sing, an inane ditty about sitting in a tree – I’m sure you know what I’m referring to. My glare intensified. “It’s cool, though,” he went on. “Hot, too,” he added after a moment’s deliberation. “And hey, Myka is, like, super logical. She’ll understand why you shot her, and she’ll forgive you, and everything’s gonna be alright. Gay wedding bells!” He wiggled his hands above his head. 

“She is a very rational character,” I told him, and myself, clinging to the statement and the hope that went with it, and ignored his antics. 

He sobered a little. “Well, except when it comes to you, of c-” He tried to stop himself, looking mortified, but it was too late. His words had speared my hope, and I’d slumped down in my chair again, burying my face in my hands. “Oh crap, HG, I didn’t mean that.”

“Yes, you did,” I groaned. 

“Yeah, okay, yes, but, hey hey hey! Not that way, okay? I mean,” and he drew out the word to emphasize it, “while falling in love with you wasn’t the most rational thing I’ve ever seen her do, I’m pretty sure she’ll be all rational about this little thing, alright?”

I shot him a glare from between my fingers, but it seemed that he had become impervious to it.

“Seriously, HG,” he gave back with a frown that came as near impatience as I’ve ever seen on his face, “snap the hell out of it, because when she wakes up, she’s gonna need you, okay?” His eyes were fixed on mine. They narrowed. “She’s gonna be disoriented, and in pain,” he went on, “and she’s probably gonna be in pain for quite a while, so you better get it together, put your shining armour on, and prepare to mop her brow and fetch her pain killers and peel her grapes, or so help me I’ll hurt you more than you hurt her, you got that?”

My hands had sunk to my knees while he spoke, and my eyes had grown wide. I nodded. What else could I do, faced with his intensity? 

“Good,” he said, and smiled, all traces of tension instantly erased. “And I’ll be Myka’s best man, okay?”

“I beg your pardon?” 

“At your wedding,” he said, grinning. Then his grin faded. “Does South Dakota even allow gay marriage?” He frowned, then grinned again. “Hey, maybe Egypt does! You never know, right?” 

He kept plying me with inanities until the doctors came to tell us that Myka had indeed come out of surgery satisfactorily, and took his leave after looking in on her to verify, with his own eyes, that she was alright. 

I’m not sure if I ever thanked him for his words.


	4. Chapter 4

Helena stared at the pillow in her lap. Her fingers had crushed one corner of it as she had told Ophie about … that moment. It was only when Ophie’s hands covered hers that Helena realized she hadn’t fully relaxed her grip yet. 

“That sounds awful,” Ophie said softly. “I mean I kinda remember Myka’s parts of it, but…” Her thumb trailed across the back of Helena’s hand. 

“It was,” Helena said thickly. “Godawful.” Her eyes roamed the room once before settling back on the pillow again. “The thought of losing you…” She took a shuddering breath. “Despite Wolly’s warning back then, despite all my good intentions as I’d stepped into the Bronzer, I can’t deny that part of me _was_ doing it simply to see you again. And then… remember the panic attack I had in Tamalpais, in the parking lot of that beverage factory?”

Ophie’s eyes narrowed a little as she sifted through her memories. Finally, she nodded. “I – she found you – you had just saved Claudia’s life, but…” she broke off, eyes suddenly round. “Oh my God,” she breathed. “Christina. And Wolcott. But-”

“Forty years.” Helena gulped dryly. “I spent more than forty years in Bronze thinking I’d lost my daughter, thinking I’d caused the death of my partner and friend. And while afterwards I’d learned that they were both alive, while I’d had a reprieve from the Bronze and even spent time with them, I also never really had any form of… therapy, to come to terms with all the tangles and knots my experiences have left in my emotions.” She laughed bitterly. “And then I spent another seven decades mostly alone with my thoughts –nicer thoughts, to be sure, but nevertheless they often circled around darker memories.” Her eyes fell on her and Ophie’s fingers, entangled as they were, and she made a conscious effort to relax her grip when she saw how white her knuckles were. Her laughter had left an acerbic twist to the corner of her mouth as she went on, “When I came out of the Bronze and encountered Myka… when first our friendship, and then our relationship evolved, I thought I’d regained some peace of mind.” Her eyes came up to meet Ophie’s, and the motion shook two tears loose. “And then I…”

“And then you almost lost her,” Ophie finished the sentence. 

“I almost _killed_ her!” Helena cried out. “It was worse than what happened to Wolly, worse than-”

“Almost,” Ophie’s voice cut through Helena’s rambling words. “‘Almost’ is an important qualifier, Georgie. ‘Almost’ means it didn’t happen.” Her eyes held Helena’s gaze, full of gentle acceptance. 

“But…” Helena croaked, and fell silent again as Ophie’s eyes never wavered. Unbidden, the thought came back to her of saying the exact words to Myka once upon a time, and she suppressed what would have very probably been a wild giggle as she wondered if Ophie remembered the occasion too. Unable to meet Ophie’s eyes any longer, unwilling to discern between Ophie and Myka for the moment, Helena dropped her head and sagged forward into the offered embrace. 

“I’m sorry,” Ophie murmured into Helena’s shoulder. “I’m sorry you weren’t allowed to talk to me – her – about what happened in 1940. I’m sorry you had to bear all of this by yourself.” She tightened her arms for a moment, then pulled back a little to look Helena in the eyes once more. “And I’m sorry I made you tell me this part first,” she added. “It was selfish of me. It hurt you. I’m sorry.”

Helena hunted her pocket for a handkerchief, blew her nose, simply breathed a few times. “I… I understand why you wanted to know, though,” she finally said. “It was… I was determined to prove, if only to myself, that I was nothing like my counterpart, that I was dependable, a good agent, and then I go and…”

“Saved my life,” Ophie said, her voice gentle once more. 

“Put your arm in a sling for a month,” Helena muttered.

“Didn’t almost cause an ice age,” Ophie countered. “Didn’t almost shoot me in the head. Didn’t cause me to turn my back on the Warehouse, and pull the rug out from under Pete’s feet in the process. How… how did the next retrieval go, by the way? Not him and Steve and Shakespeare’s Folio, I think I remember that one. The one after that. Walter Winchell’s tie clip and cufflinks – if I was out of commission, who-”

“I did,” Helena said darkly and shuddered. “The Regents had enlisted Steve Jinks to stand in for you while you were recuperating, but he and Claudia were out on their own retrieval in Boston, so it fell upon my shoulders to accompany Pete to Seattle. It went just about as swell as you would imagine.” She pulled her shoulders together to suppress another shudder. 

“What do you- oh.” Wincing, Ophie inhaled through her teeth. “Grieving mothers?”

“And mothers prepared to do anything for their child, and a partner mentally reverting to my daughter’s age.” Helena smiled a humourless smile. “Add to that the worry that on my first mission as your substitute I’d fail to prevent your partner and best friend’s regression and eventual death, and you might have an idea of how happy I was when we were back in South Dakota, none the worse for wear. I would never have thought I’d ever say this, but I was glad when we drove by the Univille city limits with Pete at the wheel.” 

Ophie chuckled once. “You’re right – I never would have thought you’d ever say this, either.” She tilted her head. “There was – _is_ a psychologist that you’ve been seeing, do I have that right?”

Helena nodded. “Doctor Burke,” she said. “The Warehouse hired him shortly after the debacle in Egypt, yes.” She snorted softly. “He had his work cut out for him, but… it helped.”

A small smile played around Ophie’s lips. “Thank you for keeping the promise you gave me back then.” She gave Helena’s hands one last squeeze and withdrew her hands to hide a yawn behind them. Then she stretched until her joints popped. “This was a lot,” she said. “I… I think I need a nap – if you don’t mind?”

“Not at all,” Helena replied quickly. “I’ll leave you to it, shall I?”

“Um… if you… would you, um, stay with me?” Ophie’s eyes were unguarded this time, and suddenly Helena’s throat constricted. 

“Would you…” Helena had to clear her throat before she was able to go on, “like me to tell you more of our adventures until Morpheus carries you off, or should I get out my journal and pen and write a little, to help you sleep?” Then she found a smile to give to Ophie.

Ophie gave a little start – despite remembering the promise she’d wrung from Georgie back in 1940, she had apparently not been thinking back to that particular night in Herefordshire when she’d announced wouldn’t mind falling asleep to the sound of Helena writing. Then she smiled back – for the first time since Helena had known her, Helena saw a true, full, open smile bloom on Ophie’s face that wasn’t instantly replaced by sorrow, or grief, or a professional front. It was different from Myka’s smiles, which typically lingered, especially when directed at Helena. It was beautiful. 

“I would like you to tell me a lighter story,” Ophie said. 

Helena smiled back. “I understand that.” Then she tilted her head. “Would you mind if I got myself a cup of tea first, though? I feel… shaken, still.” 

“Sure.” Ophie yawned yet again. “I’ll try and stay awake, but I’m making no promises, okay?”

“Of course.”


	5. Chapter 5

Helena stepped through the door and closed it behind her. She leaned against the door jamb for a moment, eyes shut, breathing deeply. She heard Pete’s door open on the other side of the hall.

“She okay?” Pete asked quietly. 

“Yes,” Helena replied, pushing herself off the door jamb with a flush of exhalation.

“Hey hey hey – _you_ okay?” He slowly wandered over to her. “You look shot, man.”

Helena winced at his choice of words. “She asked to be told about Egypt. So I did.”

Pete’s face contorted in commiseration. “Dude.”

“Quite.”

“Cuppa tea?”

And although, frankly, Helena felt like something quite a bit stronger than tea, she nodded and followed him down to the kitchen. 

“Have I ever thanked you for what you did that day?” she asked him a few minutes later, mug of Earl Grey in hand. She leaned against the countertop, closed her eyes and inhaled the citrusy aroma, finding it quite relaxing enough without a shot of rum in it.

She heard Pete, standing next to the refrigerator, chuckle and take a sip from his soda can. “Yeah, you actually did, you know. Although I don’t blame you for not remembering. It was just that little bit traumatic, after all.”

Not opening her eyes, she snorted and nodded, confident that he would see the gesture. They stood in silence for a moment. 

Then he said, “I told you back then that I knew people I served with who’d faced the same situation, remember that?” She nodded again, and opened her eyes. From his tone of voice, it seemed like what he was about to tell her was serious, so she could at least do him the courtesy of looking at him. Pete returned her nod, and her look, with a grave expression. “As I said, I wasn’t one of them. Wouldn’t ever claim to. But…” he hesitated, then scratched the back of his head and sighed. “It wasn’t easy for me to be married to another Marine, still. I mean don’t get me wrong, I loved Amanda. Head over heels. But we were both in active service, and…” he shrugged and slowly rolled the soda can in his hands. “Things can happen in active service. We didn’t even serve together, and it was still… harsh, you know? Each time I had a scare, each time she told me she’d had a scare, I… I couldn’t handle it. Couldn’t handle the thought that one day, I might get a telegram, or have a CO arrive at my doorstep, like Captain Carter at my mom’s place the night my dad got killed.” 

Helena carefully held her silence, carefully kept her face neutral, even though her thoughts raced with the implications of what she was hearing. She had not known that Pete had lost his father to duty. 

He sighed, obviously not put off by her lack of comment. “I also couldn’t handle the idea of doing that to Amanda. I think it was one of the reasons I started drinking, you know. To find a way to not care about that stuff. And I guess it was one of the reasons we didn’t work out. I mean, caring too much about that stuff. _And_ the drinking.”

Helena nodded slowly. She knew that Pete had had a drinking problem, and knew he had it well in hand these days. “I understand,” she said. 

He nodded as well, a quicker and more closing gesture than hers had been. His smile was just as quick, and typically honest. “I’m glad Mrs. F found Doc Burke, and that he was able to help you handle things.” He toasted her with his soda can. “Props to you, man. Both of you.”

Helena inclined her head in acknowledgement and raised her own mug, taking a sip. Then she said, with a toast back at him, “You and Kelly are making things work as well. So the same compliment applies to the two of you, too.”

“Aww, you softie,” he grinned. “You jockeying for best man?”

She rolled her eyes and snorted a short laugh. “I know that Myka will be your best man whenever Kelly and you decide to tie the knot. No two ways about it.”

His grin softened. “Yep,” he said. Then, hesitating a moment, he murmured to himself, “Huh, might as well,” and looked Helena fully in the eyes. “Might be quicker than we thought,” he said. “Kelly’s pregnant.” His grin widened into a full, beaming smile. “I’m gonna be a dad.”

“Congratulations!” Helena, stunned, had the presence of mind to reply. 

“Thanks,” Pete replied, still grinning. He scratched his nose with his thumb, then took another sip. Despite his hand almost covering his face, Helena could see the color in his cheeks and ears. “It’s, ah… it’s a bit new yet. Kelly told me last week, when I told her that we’d wrapped up the whole Sykes business with everyone intact.” His smile faded. “In a way, I’m glad that she told me after that whole mess, you know. I’m sure I’d’ve been good for nothing chasing Sykes with the thought of an incoming baby running around in my head.”

Helena nodded, vividly remembering her first realization that she was pregnant, and the days and retrievals that had followed it. “How is Kelly?” she asked, prompted by the memories. 

“Oh, she’s fine,” Pete beamed. “Not puking, anyway. Not yet, I guess? I mean if our math is correct, we’re 12 weeks along, more or less. Isn’t the puking something that happens early?”

“Not all expecting mothers suffer from sickness, and it doesn’t have to be during the first trimester,” Helena reminded him. “Here’s to hoping that the happy state of affairs will continue.” She raised her mug again.

Pete raised his soda can as well, nodding fervently. “Hell yeah, fingers crossed all the way.” He shot her an imploring look. “I… uh… I haven’t told anyone else yet,” he said. “And I mean _anyone_. HG, if my mom finds out I told you before I told her, she’ll _kill_ me.” He spread his hands wide. “I’m totally at your mercy now. It’s just… I’ve been, like, bursting to tell someone, and…” his eyes dropped and he grimaced. “Oh boy. I was just about to say that _you_ were a mom as well as an agent, and then I realized… Hey, look, I’m sorry, okay?” He met her eyes again, true compassion in his gaze. 

Helena suddenly realized – she was free to tell him now. Free to tell anyone, as a matter of fact. “Don’t be,” she said, a slow, incredulous smile blooming on her face. “Now that the Sykes business, as you call it, is over, I’m at liberty to tell you what I’d had to keep secret since I started working with you.” Her smile deepened. Pete stared at her in confusion, and she spared him any further uncertainty. “Christina did not die. You remember that MacPherson went back to the past to gain access to more artefacts?” Pete nodded. “He got my counterpart to help him by promising her he’d save Christina’s life. And even though he double-crossed her by not telling her – well, me – about it, he did indeed prevent Christina’s murder. He did erase her memories with the Janus Coin and hid her from the world, but Wolly and the Doctor rescued her in turn. Unfortunately, due to,” she smirked and rolled her eyes, “timey-wimey circumstances, I was already bronzed. They did unbronze me as quickly as they could, but that still was about forty years later.”

“Forty!” Pete interjected. “Forty years! But that means that all that time you thought…” his voice faltered. He whistled softly. “Holy crap. No wonder you had a grudge against him.”

“The grudge of the century, one might say,” Helena replied dryly. “It took a while for me to move on from wanting to tear him limb from limb to contenting myself with delivering him to Warehouse justice.” She took the last sip of tea and grimaced when she realized it had gone cold. “I take it as a testament for that change of mind that I truly regretted killing him,” she added modestly.

“That was an accident, though, wasn’t it?” Pete tilted his head. “I mean, that’s still true, right?”

“Oh, yes.” Helena nodded emphatically. “You were there. Artie tesla’d me, I seized and fell against the chair MacPherson was in, the edge of the Imperceptor Vest’s shoulder tangled with his amulet and snapped the cord. I didn’t even know he was dead until Doctor Calder told me.” 

“Artie was so pissed with you,” Pete reminisced, emptying his soda. 

“Artie needs something to be angry at,” Helena replied, staring into her empty mug. “He knew he couldn’t fault me for MacPherson’s death, not really, yet he carried that grudge for quite a while.”

Pete nodded, his eyes still resting on old memories. “It was epic when Mrs. F told him off.”

Helena winced. “I’m not sure it improved my standing much,” she mused. “Anyway,” she concluded, setting down the mug decisively, “while I did mourn my daughter while I was bronzed for the first time, I later learned that she was not only alive, but had made a good life for herself, with a husband and children and a sizeable business growing apples in Herefordshire.”

“Wow,” Pete said. Then a slow smile began to grow on his face. “She had children, huh?” He was grinning now. “So you’re not just a mom, you’re a grandma!” he crowed.

“Keep your voice down!” she hissed. Ophie had looked quite tired when Helena had left; perchance she was napping even now. 

“Grandma Helena,” Pete said in a sing-song voice. Then his face brightened even more, “Granny Wells!” 

She narrowed her eyes. “You repeat either of those names one more time, Petey-Pants, or any other like them, and it will go very hard on you.”

His features froze instantly. “Who told you that one?” he asked. 

Helena smirked. “A good researcher never reveals her sources,” she said, bowing her head. She turned away from him and picked up her mug to rinse it in the sink. 

She heard Pete sigh behind her. “Alright, alright,” he grumbled. “I won’t if you won’t.”


	6. Chapter 6

You asked for something light – I suppose that watching Star Trek for the first time falls under that category? Excellent. 

“You guys busy with something?” Claudia asked, standing in the door to Myka’s room like a miniature storm cloud in sneakers. Myka and I looked at each other, both a little taken aback. Half an hour ago, Claudia had shooed all of us out of the living room to meet with Todd, and now here she was, upset obvious on her face. Myka was quicker to connect the dots and shook their head, gesturing for Claudia to come in. “Excellent,” Claudia said a little too monotonously, staying in the doorway. “I’m in the mood for some binge-watching. So tonight, we’ll rectify the fact that _you_ ,” she pointed at me, “haven’t seen Star Trek yet. PETE!!” she then yelled.

“WHAT?” Pete yelled back through his closed door. 

“WE’RE COMING OVER TO YOUR PLACE FOR A STAR TREK MARATHON!!” Claudia announced, crooking her finger at Myka and me. 

“OKAY!!”

“Guys,” Myka sighed as she stood up, adding more loudly, “It’s called an indoor voice?” 

“BRING POPCORN OR PREPARE TO SIT ON THE FLOOR!!” was Pete’s yelled reply. 

Still endlessly fascinated by the workings of a microwave – this was barely three weeks after I had moved into the Bed and Breakfast – I volunteered for the task of making popcorn. I could hear the three of you arguing even as I walked back upstairs with a bulging bowl in each hand, and felt free to enter Pete’s room after my admittedly somewhat quiet elbow knock had gone unheeded. 

“-totally Voyager,” Claudia said, standing in the centre of the room, arms crossed, “it’s full of bad-ass ladies!”

“But the writing for DS9 is so much better,” Myka replied imploringly. She was seated on a small sofa at the back wall.

“We gotta start at the beginning,” Pete insisted from where he was sitting on the bed, “and that means Kirk and Spock! Nothing against Voyager-”

“Hah! Of course not – be real, dude, Seven is a dead ringer for Amanda when she was, like, fifteen years younger.”

“Which is totally,” Pete said, pointing a finger up at Claudia with wounded dignity, “and I mean _totally_ , offset by Janeway looking so much like my mom it’s _scary_.”

“Did you know that some people actually ship them? I thought you of all people would be on board with slashing,” Claudia said. I had no idea what she meant, but Pete obviously did, because he shook his head vigorously. 

“Nah. Uh-uh. I mean don’t get me wrong – I am totally down with slash-fic. _Normally_.” Pete shuddered. “But those two? Nope. Nope. _And_ nope. That is just… that’s just _wrong_. I’m gonna need brain bleach now.” He shook himself again and made a few grimaces of disgust.

None of them were paying any attention to me and my load. “Excuse me,” I interrupted, my head turning slowly to try and find a place for the popcorn bowls. 

Pete quickly rose to help. “Salty or sweet?” he asked. “Which is which, HG?”

“Dude’s asking the important questions here,” Claudia said approvingly, also heading towards me. 

“This one is salty,” I held up the bowl in my left hand, “and this one is sweet.” I raised the bowl in my right. 

“Sweet!” Claudia pounced on the salty bowl at the same time as Pete, causing me to pirouette out of their reach. “Dude! Smooth and svelte and suave and all, but gimme that!” 

“Claudia, why don’t you sit down with Pete,” Myka suggested, “and share that bowl with him? And Pete, when I say ‘share,’ I mean you both get equal amounts, alright?” She threw him a long, pointed look, then turned and smiled at me, patting the spot next to her on the little two-seater. “And why don’t you get yourself and that delicious sweet popcorn over here?”

“Hey hey hey,” Pete sang out while I put one bowl into Claudia’s impatient hands, “I thought you didn’t eat sugar?” He immediately reached in and grabbed a handful when Claudia sat down beside him. 

“We’re facing a marathon, Pete,” Myka said diffidently, shuffling to the side to allow me to sit down. “I gotta snack on something that’ll sustain me.”

“What were you arguing about when I came in?” I asked, handing the bowl with sweet popcorn to Myka and making myself comfortable next to her on the two-seater. 

“Which show, or rather which episodes, to watch,” Myka replied, rolling her eyes. 

“I still stand by it that it’s best to start at the beginning,” Pete said. “I mean, sure, the effects aren’t much, and some of the stories are really crappy, but there’s a good number of gems in there, and it’s where the hype began. That’s gotta count for something,” he added. “If you wanna know why something lasted this long and got this big, you gotta start at the beginning.”

“I… find myself agreeing with that logic,” I said slowly. 

“Okay, here’s an idea,” Pete said, holding up his hands at Claudia’s and Myka’s immediate protests. “We each get to pick two episodes from our favourite show, and we’ll watch them in the order that they aired, alright?” 

This suggestion found general agreement, and after Pete’s introductory ramble about ‘a man with a vision, back in the 60s,’ I found myself watching one space ship encounter another, which held people who had been cryogenically frozen (“I thought you’d like that bit,” was Pete’s explanation, “it was the first episode that popped into my head when we decided we’d watch Star Trek with you. Also, no, we didn’t have Eugenic Wars in the 1990s, just in case you wondered.”) 

“I wish I had had that,” I said wryly when the space ship’s doctor remarked on the recuperative power of the recently awakened Khan. “My recuperation wasn’t quite that smooth, alas.” From the corner of my eyes, I could see Myka wince in commiseration. She was the only one present who had at least some idea what I meant, having visited me at my request after I had woken up in Doctor Calder’s care. 

Watching this, and the following episode in which the stalwart Captain Kirk had to fight an unnamed reptilian alien on an unnamed world, culminating in a show of mercy, I concluded that their creator had indeed had a vision, and had probably drawn quite a few of his inspirations from my and Charles’ works. It’s not as though I couldn’t understand the appeal of utopian fiction; I had collaborated with Charles on some of my own, after all, and it had always left me in a far better mood than dystopia had. 

Myka’s first choice of episode, an episode of ‘The Next Generation’ called ‘Yesterday’s Enterprise,’ featured a ship out of its time as well, and a far greater number of female characters than both of Pete’s choices had. It seemed, I thought to myself after the episode ended, that time travel of some kind was a staple of man’s imagination, especially the fascination with the thought of a ‘true’ and an infinite number of ‘alternate’ timelines which had to be prevented or tweaked back into the original shape, and the theory that one particular event might be pinpointed as the cause of ‘timeline divergences.’ Considering how and why I myself had come to sit here, the notion made me chuckle. 

When Myka looked at me questioningly, I asked, “Is this a common concept? Having one timeline that is right, while all others are not?”

Myka frowned, and nodded. “There _are_ works which question that,” she said, “but yeah, a lot of time travel stories that revolve around the concept of multiple timelines, or of changes to timelines, deal with it that way.” She suddenly broke into a giddy grin. “There’s a ton more time travel episodes of Star Trek, you know,” she said. “Even a decent Original Series one.”

“Eh, too mushy,” Pete cut in, stuffing another fistful of popcorn into his mouth. “Has Joan Collins in it, though,” he munched, and proceeded to make appreciative noises that were only slightly muffled. Myka had to lean across me to punch his leg, which hung over the edge of the bed and was, thus, the only body part she could easily reach – a fact that had me breathless and confused at the same time. The leaning across me, of course, not Pete’s posture. I wanted to flirt with you – well, Myka – but I had not quite yet found the right approach, what with Wolly’s dire warnings plus all the secrets I still needed to keep at that time.

“Also, don’t forget the Back to the Future movies,” Claudia piped in, thankfully derailing my train of thought, “you’re gonna love them, HG! Oh my god, and Fringe! You gotta-”

Myka, rolling her eyes, quickly interrupted what seemed to become a lengthy list. “The next episode I picked,” she said in a slightly raised voice, “isn’t a time travel story per se, but has some elements of it. I did try to choose an episode that would stand on its own; Deep Space Nine is quite serialized, so it wasn’t easy, but I think Far Beyond the Stars will be interesting for you.”

It was indeed, although it hit very close to home to witness a writer (a minority in that he was a black man, just as I had been a minority as a woman) fight for his stories, and break down in tears as he was refused to see them published. At some point, I must have taken Myka’s hand quite without noticing, for I found myself squeezing it too harshly at Ben Russell’s final plea. When I took a deep breath and released it, Myka smiled at me reassuringly. Again, I found myself somewhat short of breath. I also wondered if anyone had noticed the interlude.

“Guys. I am _so_ glad Pete suggested two episodes,” Claudia announced as the end credits rolled, either oblivious of or tactfully ignoring what had transpired between Myka and me. “I mean, technically you could argue that a two-parter could be counted as one, but I so appreciate that I don’t have to make that argument tonight. Ladies and Pete-man, I present – The Year of Hell.”

I had thought that after four episodes of Star Trek and more than a lifetime in Bronze with – apart from Irene’s too-infrequent visits – only my own thoughts for company, no fictional idea could faze me. A quarter of an hour in, though, I realized that I was patently not prepared to witness the story of a man obsessed with turning back time again and again in order to save his wife. Yes, technically it was the story of a Federation ship caught in his machinations, one with, yes, ‘bad-ass ladies,’ but Janeway, Torres and Seven of Nine had far less of an impact on me than Annorax had. And alright, _yes_ , I agree that they look very similar to Pete’s mother and former wife. 

I _was_ in the middle of a moment, you know.

I couldn’t help but think of the other version of myself that you had told me about, and how that other Helena had, just like Annorax, tried again and again to go back in time and save her daughter. Even though she had not been able to actively change history, she had persisted, through all the grief it must have brought her. I couldn’t help but think of how close I myself had come to a similar fate; I _had_ thought about creating a time machine, I _had_ researched the concept, I _had_ drawn the designs. If not for the constant efforts of Wolcott and Caturanga to ‘take my mind off things,’ as they had called it… _there but for the grace of God go I_ , as they say. 

It made me shiver. It made me desperately want to discuss these thoughts, but I knew that I couldn’t, not then anyway – I had agreed with Irene that divulging any information about what happened in 1940 would have to wait until the moment the Doctor restored your and Claudia’s memories. Until that time, Irene Frederic was the only person alive who knew what had happened, and who I could possibly talk to. And frankly, that didn’t hold much appeal, even disregarding the question if Irene knew Star Trek at all.

“Are you alright?” Myka asked quietly, hesitantly, and I realized two things: one, that the end credits had rolled, as I’ve learned to call it, without me acknowledging it, and two, that I was clinging to Myka’s hand again. 

I let go, smiling apologetically. “This last one…” I took a deep breath. “I empathize with Annorax, on a deeply personal level,” I said finally, my voice just as low. 

I could see when the realization hit Myka. I had told her – well, _all_ the agents had been briefed that I had lost my daughter and had been bronzed over the grief of it, hoping to awaken in a better time. That was the story that Irene and I had come up with, at any rate. But Myka, I had told in person, still on my sickbed, when I had asked her to be my guide to the present I found myself in in 2010. I watched Myka’s eyes grow large and deeply sad as the connection between ‘losing a loved one’ and ‘time ship/time machine’ was made. All of a sudden, the idea of trying to instil sympathy in the agents for a mother bereft didn’t seem such a stroke of genius anymore. All of a sudden, it seemed cheap and supremely insincere. All of a sudden, I realized how much I would have to lie to Myka, even if only by omission, in the upcoming years. And I trembled inwardly at the question of what that would do to any friendship, any trust, any relationship that might develop between us when she would, inevitably, find out.

-_-_-

“Okay, just so you know, right here and now,” Ophie interrupted Helena, “the way this is all tangled up, I’m trying to sort it all out before I decide on who to blame for what, okay? I mean, okay, yes, I’m really not good with being lied to or not being told important things,” she grimaced briefly, “and part of me insists that I should be angry about it, but I know… I keep telling myself, anyway, that there’s a larger picture here. I’m on my way to understanding that larger picture, and until then…” she took a deep breath. “No judgement. I’m trying not to, anyway.”

Helena grasped Ophie’s hand and squeezed it. “That’s all I ask for,” she said. “Since you mentioned it just now – can I ask how… how it feels to be in Myka’s head, as it were? And…” her breath caught for a moment, “are you here for good now, or will Myka resurface at some point? Is that how it works, even?”

Ophie shook her head slowly. “I… don’t think it’s an either-or situation,” she then replied. “It’s... there are two sets of memories in my head right now, and for now, the ‘memories of Ophie,’ if you like,” they both shared a smile when Ophie used finger quotes, “are more… more _me_. Closer to how I feel right now, you know?”

Helena nodded. “So when I tell you events as they proceeded between Myka and me-” 

“-I remember them too, the memories are there, in my head, but they feel more removed. At least with your stories, I can sort through them, determine what’s what,” Ophie nodded. Then she grimaced again. “The problem is not so much the memories of what _happened_ ,” she continued, “but the memories of how I felt when it happened in the way I remember, and how she felt about what happened to her. Especially after Egypt, it’s just so… different.”

“Because I didn’t tesla you and Pete,” Helena ventured a guess, and Ophie nodded.

“I mean, you shot me with a grappler instead,” she replied, and then smiled, and held up her hands when Helena opened her mouth to protest. “I’m just kidding, I’m just kidding.” She tilted her head. “Too soon?”

Helena swallowed her initial reply with a deep breath. “Most definitely.”

Ophie’s expression turned soft and apologetic. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Go on with the story?” When Helena nodded, Ophie leaned back and wiggled a little to get comfortable. “You did pick a nice one – well until it got sad and uncomfortable, but I don’t see how any of our stories would ever be free from that.” She sighed, then smiled lopsidedly. 

Helena swallowed and cleared her throat. “Indeed. Now, where were we…?”

-_-_-

“I’m sorry,” Myka mouthed, and I nodded in acknowledgement, barely able to meet her eyes, much less say anything. Looking off to the side, I saw that our conversation had not carried to Claudia and Pete, who at that point were animatedly discussing something called a ‘reset button.’ Bad enough as it was to have to keep all of this from Myka, I had no desire to discuss the matter in a larger group.

“So, HG,” Pete began, tilting the popcorn bowl to catch the last few morsels, “what was your favourite?” He mimed a few jabs at the bowl, spattering his bed liberally with the remnants of the salty treats. “The Gorn fight?” He went into a comically overacted yoga routine. “The Augments?” He nodded his chin at Claudia and Myka in turn, hands still over his head and pointing to the ceiling. “Or one of theirs?”

“It is hard to say,” I replied diplomatically, glad for the change of topic, “they’re all quite different from one another, each having merits and flaws that the others don’t possess. I would like to watch more of all four series, given time. It’s fascinating to see where science fiction has gone.”

Claudia and Pete whooped and gave each other a high five, while Myka simply beamed. Then her face fell slightly, into a deprecating frown. “Technically,” she added, “there is a fifth series, but-”

“-we don’t talk about it,” Claudia finished the thought. “Nobody in this household likes it.”

“I think Leena-” Pete began, and was met with disbelieving scoffs. 

“No way, dude.”

“Oh, come on, Leena has better taste than that.”

“Leena,” Pete insisted, “sees things differently than most people.” He shrugged. “Maybe she sees something in Enterprise that we don’t see. Don’t diss that.” 

“Fine. Fine, okay. I’ll grant you that. Different strokes for different folks.” Claudia nodded, warming my heart with her quick acceptance. “Anyway, HG, I’m totally up for Project Watch All of Star Trek in Broadcast Order.” She stuck out her tongue at Myka and Pete. “I’ve seen hardly anything of the first three shows, so I’m game if you are.”

“Me too,” Myka said quickly, excitedly. “I mean I have seen all of TNG and DS9, but I haven’t seen much of the Original Series except the one with the tribbles-”

“Everyone’s seen that,” Pete nodded sagely.

“-and the movies,” Myka finished. “And I’ve only ever seen Voyager in bits and pieces because I started taking AP classes that year, so watching all of it in order holds a certain appeal.” She grinned. “I’ll ask Leena tomorrow to see if she’s interested, okay?”

“So, what, is that going to be girls’ time only, or can I come, too?” Pete said. “I mean, the Petemeister understands girl bonding, totally, but hey hey hey, it could also be Team Warehouse bonding, you know what I mean?” He looked at each of us in turn. “Whaddaya say?”

“Oh I want Leena in this, if only to offset all you old people,” Claudia said, to loud protests from Myka and Pete. As technically someone well past their centenary, I held my silence. Then Claudia leaned forward, eyes intent, two fingers up. “Two conditions, though. One, you,” she pointed at Pete, “refrain from pouting or booing or any other kinds of disparaging displays when we point out Trek’s raging racist and sexist attitudes to HG, and two, everyone gets their own bowl of popcorn or snack of choice. You,” she glared at Pete again, “don’t share well.”

“Three, no talking with your mouth full,” Myka added. “I’d even go so far as to say no comments while the episode is running, but since that’d kill Pete, I’ll refrain from making it a condition.”

“So kind,” Pete gave her a sitting bow. “I accept! Project Warehouse Agents Watch All of Star Trek in Broadcast Order is a go!”

“I actually like his comments,” I said. When both Claudia and Myka stared at me in disbelief, I raised my eyebrows and shrugged. “You have context for these shows, I do not. His comments provided some. I appreciate that.”

“Dude, I can provide context!” Claudia protested, while Pete offered me a high five, which I graciously, if gingerly, accepted. “I only kept quiet because I didn’t want to interrupt all the time!”

“Yeah, me too,” Myka chimed in. “I hate interruptions, though, so maybe we can agree to give context after the end credits?” 

Claudia shrugged. “Sure. HG?”

“Acceptable,” I nodded. 

“Awesome!” Pete punched the air. “It’s like the book club Mom made me go to, only with Star Trek episodes! And with my favourite people!” he added, beaming. “One thing, though.” He grew serious again, catching all of our eyes in turn. “No. Adultery. We do this together, or not at all.” He stretched out his arm, hand open, palm facing down, into the middle of the semicircle we were sitting in. “Do we agree on that?”

“I’m in,” Claudia said, putting her hand on top of his.

Myka looked at me. “You okay with that?” 

I tilted my head. “Do you mean that no one is allowed to watch episodes by themselves? Before we have watched them together, or at all?”

“Oh, you’re free to re-watch to your heart’s desire, London Lady,” Pete explained. 

“In that case, and on the provision that you refrain from nicknaming me, I am in, too.” And I delicately put my hand atop Claudia’s, as that seemed to be the required gesture.

“Aw man!” Pete complained. “And I’m already committed. Can I at least try to guess your middle name? It’s kinda a tradition by now. Gertrude.”

“Don’t believe him,” Claudia told me, “that is _not_ a tradition; he just did it to Myka so he could tease her. He has no idea what mine is… oops.” She ducked her head and rolled her eyes as Pete grinned. 

“Alright! Side Operation Pete Figures out Middle Names is a go, too!” Pete crowed, grinning widely. “C’mon, Myka, join us here.” He nodded towards the stack of hands.

Myka, who sat furthest away from it, actually got up, dropped her long frame down next to Claudia, and joined her hand to our pile. Pete whooped and moved his hand up and down three times, taking our hands along. From the way Claudia’s and Myka’s arms moved of their own accord rather than through his motions, I assumed that this, too, was part of the ritual, and played along, taking my cues, as Kempo had taught me, from the others’ body language, right down to breaking apart after the three shakes. 

“That,” Claudia said in wide-eyed acknowledgment of my feat, “was impressive. I mean, this _must_ have been your first Team Hand Stack, right, and it went without a hitch! How’d you do that?” 

“Maybe one day I’ll tell you,” I smiled at her. “A lady has to have some secrets.”

-_-_-

“That _was_ a good night,” Ophie smiled. “Well, apart from,” rolling her eyes, she waved a hand vaguely, “you know, having to watch someone destroy countless worlds in countless timelines to try and resurrect their loved one. And apart from only watching that stuff in the first place because Todd broke up with Claudia.” She sighed. “Was he in witness protection in this timeline too?”

“Oh yes,” Helena nodded. “As tragic as that situation was, though, I find I’m selfishly – and only a little, of course – glad that it happened. Apart from starting a Star Trek rewatch that still isn’t finished, it also caused Claudia to spend more time with me and my ‘twenty-first century one-oh-one,’ which I greatly appreciated.” 

Ophie chuckled. “Did you now.”

Helena simply nodded again. Then a line from one of the most recent Deep Space Nine episodes they had watched resurfaced, and she chuckled. “Doctor Bashir might say that you _are_ Myka Bering, just with a few additional memories.”

Ophie groaned. “No, no, no,” she said, shaking her head and pointing her finger. “ _You_ don’t get to make contemporary culture references.” She gave Helena a mock scowl. Then, apparently thinking of something different, she looked around the room curiously. “Sooo…” Ophie said then, a long, drawn-out sound with a lazy smile in tow, and Helena knew what would come next. “For someone who wasn’t sure how to woo me, it seems you did well enough.” She looked around the room pointedly. “How did that happen?”

Helena cleared her throat and looked down, trying to hide her suddenly flushed cheeks. “Are you sure you’re not too tired?” she ventured. “It’s been a long day, and you only had this short nap now.” And as if the word ‘tired’ had flipped a number of switches inside her own body, Helena suddenly had to yawn and stretch.

“Selling it a bit hard, aren’t you?” Ophie chuckled dryly, then stretched as well. “Alright, I guess we can wait until tomorrow. What’s the time anyway?” She craned her neck to look at the bed-side table and its alarm clock. “Oof,” she sighed – they both did – at the sight of a very small hour. 

“Do you…” Helena broke off, uncertain how to phrase her question. “Would you mind if…” No, not that either. “Would you like me to stay,” she finally asked, “or would you like to be on your own tonight?”

“Stay,” Ophie said immediately, grasping Helena’s hand. “Please.”


	7. Chapter 7

Helena lay awake for quite some time after Ophie had fallen asleep – which had taken minutes, enviably. What kept Helena up longer was pondering what Ophie had said about having two sets of memories. So it was less of a ‘this is Ophie and that is Myka’ situation and more of a ‘she is both Ophie _and_ Myka’ situation – surely the next days would reveal what kind of a person Myka Ophelia Bering would be from now on, integrating these two sets of memories. Helena found herself thinking back to Ophie’s words about the emotional aspect of things. She had no doubt that Ophie would be able to catalogue factual memories as belonging to either the ‘Myka timeline’ or the ‘Ophie timeline,’ or whatever designation she’d choose, but keeping the emotions straight that were connected to each memory – Helena could appreciate that that would be a more difficult task. 

_When she looks at me, who does she see? And how does she feel about who she sees?_ Helena thought as she ran her fingers gently over Ophie’s shoulder. Ophie shivered slightly and curled her body up more tightly, and incidentally also more closely into Helena’s side. It made Helena smile and continue her caress – one thing was certain: Myka Ophelia Bering trusted Helena Wells. Regardless of which incarnation for either of them. The rest, Helena told herself, would sort itself out. She continued to softly stroke Ophie’s shoulder, because it reminded her of Christina, too, of unconditional love, of making someone feeling safe and cherished, of watching over a loved one’s sleep. She suppressed a chuckle at the memory of how it had been Christina who’d used the same caress to soothe Helena’s panic attack, back after her first unbronzing. _What goes around comes around,_ she thought to herself. _  
_  
It soothed her, too, that Ophie had asked her to stay, that Ophie had so willingly curled up next to her, that Ophie was sleeping in her arms right now. Back in 1940, Ophie had been holding on by the very skin of her teeth, and Helena had been just as flummoxed how best to proceed then as she had been when she’d encountered Myka in 2010. Again, Helena fought down a chuckle. This would make a fantastic story – how many protagonists, though? Two? Four? Quite apart from the supporting cast, of course. _It’s just as well that Myka and I have found our feet in our relationship,_ she thought. _Quite a stable foundation to incorporate a development as unprecedented as this._

Courting Myka had been a challenge, and not simply because so much more than a relationship in the workplace, itself fraught with traps for the unwary, had hinged on it. If she had not succeeded – if whatever had developed between Agent Bering and Agent Wells had taken a turn for the worse ( _or the catastrophic,_ Helena added, thinking of Ophie’s tale of Yellowstone), what would that have meant for their collaborations on artefact retrievals? What would it have meant for the people whose lives had been saved in the course of their cooperation? 

And yet, despite Irene’s warnings, Helena had continued her advances, and had been oh so rewarded. Well, apart from Egypt. If theirs, like any relationship, had its high points, Egypt had been the lowest point Helena could have ever imagined. And yet they’d made it through, by dint of determination, stubbornness, and with outside help in spades. 

~^~^~

The moment she had been able to verify that Claudia Donovan would live, Helena fled the bottling plant’s laboratory as if all the ice giants of Hel were after her. Steering clear of Myka’s rental car, she walked hurriedly towards the other end of the parking lot and dropped to her hands and knees behind the last car, staring at the dirty asphalt between her fingers and trying to breathe deeply. 

She had succeeded to save the young agent. Claudia was safe and sound, and would continue on her life’s path. And she, Helena, was responsible for that. So why did she find herself retching and heaving? Why was her heart racing and beating out of her chest? 

Because that was where it was, once more. 

Helena vividly remembered coming across an author’s table in a bookstore at Heathrow, months ago when MacPherson had sent her to London. It had been heaped in books about pregnancy and childcare, and crowned by a large placard with the quote ‘To have a child is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body.’ She had had to find sanctuary in a bathroom after seeing that, for a similar bout of heaving and – yes, she was crying again, Helena noticed in a detached way, wiping her cheeks with the back of one shaking hand. 

Adrenaline, norepinephrine, she heard the names of the neurotransmitters in Ophie’s voice. Nausea, trembling and crying were a body’s response to prolonged and/or intense stress, and Helena had certainly had enough of that in the laboratory. This was more than that, though. For the nausea, trembling and crying did not lessen no matter how many measured breaths Helena took, no matter how many times she repeated her favourite mantra, no matter how many of Ophie’s other calming techniques she tried. On the contrary, whenever she stopped concentrating, her mind would take her back to Claudia in a vat of ice, burning up, looking at Helena with all the terror of a child suddenly realizing her own mortality. And then the nausea, trembling and crying would start all over again. 

“ _Here_ you a- oh my god.” A shadow dropped on Helena. She felt a hand on her shoulder, and heard Myka shout, “I found her, Claud. You, uh… you and Garry … just uh, just go back to the dorm, okay? We’ll be along in a bit.” Helena dimly heard an affirmative reply, then the hand on her shoulder changed position as the body it belonged to squatted down next to her. “Helena, are you alright?”

Helena felt, for a flash second, like laughing at the question. Was it not clearly visible that she was not alright? Another trembling bout had her in its grasp, though, and she could not laugh, could not reply, could not even nod or shake her head. 

“Okay,” Myka said soothingly, “okay, Helena, _breathe_ , alright?” The hand on Helena’s shoulder wandered to the small of her back and up to her shoulder again, in a slow rhythm that would match inhalations and exhalations if Helena could only manage them. “Come on,” Myka coaxed, “I’ll breathe with you, okay? In through the nose, out through the mouth. Easy, right?”

And again, Helena felt like laughing, felt a ringing in her ears through which Myka sounded just like Ophie, because she was, because she would be, because-

“In through the nose, Helena, come on,” Myka insisted gently, nudging Helena’s shoulder with her own. And Helena breathed, in through her nose, out through her mouth, and tried to hear Myka, not Ophie, tell her how to do it.

~^~^~

Some hours later, Helena knocked on Claudia’s door. Upon hearing a somewhat surprised-sounding ‘yeah?’, she stuck her head in. 

“I hope I am not bothering you,” she began. When Claudia shrugged and shook her head, Helena continued, “I wanted to look in on you; see if you were alright.” It was more for her own peace of mind – Claudia had been pronounced completely healthy by Doctor Calder, her tumble into a vat of artefact-enhanced drink having left no ill effects. They all were, in fact, back at the Bed and Breakfast, because after being given a clean bill of health, Claudia had shudderingly denied all offers to stay at the hospital ‘just in case.’ 

“Oh! Um, okay. Uh, come on in,” Claudia told her with another shrug and what seemed like a slight blush. 

Helena did – and promptly tripped over a cable, which in turn caused a stack of electric components to topple and fall over. 

“Whoa there!” Claudia started to laugh, but a closer look at Helena’s face made her stop. “You alright? You look a bit more spooked than someone who just lost at breadboard jenga should look.”

Helena slowly relaxed, her hands falling away from her chest and mouth. “I am dreadfully sorry,” she said automatically. “Was that something important?”

“Nah,” Claudia waved her concern away. “Seriously, though, HG, you look like you’ve just seen a ghost. Just… just, um, sit down, okay? There’s no telling what you’ll fall into if you faint, you know.” She pointed at her bed, the only uncluttered flat surface available.

Eyebrow raised, Helena looked around the room, agreed, and sank down on the edge of the bed. 

“Um… this isn’t…” Claudia began, eyes flicking this way and that. “This _is_ about earlier today, isn’t it,” she finished, in what was more statement than question. She focused her gaze on the pen in her hands, staring intently at the little plastic tube.

Helena swallowed. Claudia was very insightful. “You’re right,” she said. “I… Well, now that I have seen that you are indeed alright, I suppose I had better be going.” She made as if to get up again.

Claudia raised both her gaze and her hands lightning-quick. “No!” she exclaimed. “It’s… um, it’s… look, it’s okay,” she continued in a mumble. “We were… um, we were all, um, told about your kid. If I’d been in your shoes – and I totally dig them, as an aside,” and now Helena was _sure_ that Claudia was blushing, but the young agent pressed on, apparently determined to get the words out, “it’d mess with me too, being called to save someone’s life,” Claudia said quickly. Then she shrugged again, one-shouldered and awkward. “I mean it’s not like that isn’t a ton of pressure all by itself, but for you…” The young woman swallowed and dropped her gaze. “Must have been awful.” 

Insightful and forthright. Helena felt like running, but it had been she who’d come here, and rushing right back out now would be bad form. She wished that she were allowed to tell Claudia about Christina. Instead, she simply smiled – although given her current state of mind, it came out as more of a grimace. 

“Hey, it’s cool,” Claudia said immediately, with a valid attempt to sound reassuring. “I mean, you did it, remember? Totally came through for me.” She raised one fist in what Helena assumed was some kind of salute or thanks. For a moment, their eyes met, then Claudia focused on her pen again. After a moment, though, she gave Helena the slightest of gazes, the most minute of winks. “And you so spooked Myka when you disappeared like that, but hey, I totally get that, you know, in hindsight. Needed a breather, I’m assuming.”

Helena nodded. “I’m not proud of running-” she began, but again, Claudia waved her words away. 

“Dude, no biggie – we all have moments when we can’t cope. I’m just glad you pulled yourself together long enough to save my life.” She grinned sheepishly. Then her face fell. “It’s just too bad we couldn’t save these kids too, you know.” Suddenly her eyes grew wide, worried, and apologetic, and she looked fully at Helena. “Not that I’m blaming you, of course!” 

Time for Helena to reassure Claudia. “Not to worry,” she sighed. She did blame herself for any death-by-artefact that she was unable to prevent, and Claudia would come to do the same soon enough if she wasn’t already. But it really was not necessary to bring that up right now.

Claudia leaned back in her desk chair and exhaled. “A’it.” She flicked the pen’s top a couple of times, then tilted her head. “You know, though…” She scrutinized Helena thoughtfully, and for a moment seemed older than her age.

Helena raised her eyebrow. “Out with it,” she said with a small frown, trying not to sound too impatient – or apprehensive. 

“Come to think of it,” Claudia said in a slow voice, “and I might just have been hallucinating, you know, what with burning up in a tub of ice and whatnot…”

“Yes?” Now Helena had a definite feeling of foreboding.

“Seemed to me,” Claudia drew out the words for maximum effect, “that there were an awful lot of meaningful looks between Myka and you.” She pointed her pen at Helena. “You totally kept looking at her lips. And her… you know. Um.” She moved her hands up and down in front of her chest. “Downblouse. Weapons of mass distraction. Gland canyon. Um. You know.”

Helena blinked several times, rapidly, startled. Caught. “I beg your pardon?”

“I’m not blind, you know,” Claudia said and tapped her pen on one of the buttons on her lapel. “If you wanna stare at the ladies, if Myka’s fine with that, hey – no hate!” she said, and when Helena shook her head at the non-sequitur, Claudia elaborated, “It’s an equal rights campaign for LGBTQ people.” When Helena’s puzzled face didn’t change, Claudia suddenly laughed. “Duh!” she smacked her forehead. “Lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, queer,” she listed. “No hate for you, for anyone, regardless of their sexual or gender identity, that’s what this button stands for.” She tapped it again. “There are more letters, too, to include asexual people, intersex people, people who-” she stopped and rolled her eyes at herself. “Shuuutting up because that’s beside the point.”

Helena nodded, still at a loss for what to say. 

“So, um, anyhoo,” Claudia said with another shrug and a gesture somewhere between uncoordinated and magnanimous. “I’m good with, you know, um. You going after Myka.” Claudia tilted her head, as if to prompt Helena to say something. 

Helena’s mouth was suddenly dry. Not only did she not know what to say, but she was positive that whatever words she might find would come out in a croak. 

Suddenly, Claudia grinned. “Wow,” she said, “you got it bad.”

Before Helena could ask her if that meant what she thought it meant – in order to protest the assumption, of course – there was a knock on the door, and Pete stuck his head in. 

“Hey Claud, you alr- oh hey, didn’t know you were here, HG. Sorry.”

“No, Pete, come in, come in,” Claudia waved her hands urgently. “We need your help.”

At this at last, Helena rallied. “I do _not_ need-” 

“Aaand she’s back!” Claudia crowed while Pete looked on in confusion. 

“Do you or don’t you need my help?” he asked, pointing his thumb over his shoulder. “I paused Mortal Kombat to look in on you, you know.” 

“I don’t!” Helena said quickly. “We don’t.” She made shooing motions towards the door. “By all means resume your deathly battle.” She assumed it was one of his video games – there had been no actual sounds of struggle from his room when she had walked by it earlier, and he certainly didn’t sound distraught enough for any real combat to be going on. 

Claudia held her silence until Pete, still looking supremely confused, had closed the door behind him. Then she laughed out loud. “You should have seen your face!”

Helena bristled. “That,” she said, “was uncalled for.”

“It unfroze you, didn’t it?” Claudia grinned. “I have leverage now.”

“And what do you mean by that?” 

“Well, if you don’t get this ship sailing, I can threaten to enlist Pete to help things along.”

“Ship?” Helena felt just as confused as Pete had looked, if not more. 

“Short for relation-ship,” Claudia explained with a huff and a roll of her eyes that were completely unwarranted in Helena’s opinion. “Also means that you like the idea of someone having a relationship with someone else – like, I ship Kirk and Spock, meaning I-”

“Yes, I understand,” Helena said dryly, suddenly understanding what Claudia had been talking about in regards to Voyager’s Janeway and Seven of Nine. “So you ‘ship’ Myka and I, then?” 

“Dude…” Claudia said with wide eyes. Then she nodded avidly. “Hell yeah? I mean, Myka’s awesome, you’re awesome, and you two got some serious chemistry.”

“Now what’s that supposed to – oh! Attraction, you mean.” Although why that wouldn’t be ‘physics’ instead, Helena did not know. Nevertheless, to hear it stated outright, to have a third person confirm what she’d been hoping, wishing, longing for… she couldn’t help warmth spreading through her core at the thought.

“Metric. Shittons.” Claudia kept nodding. “Just…” she sat up straight for a moment, then rolled her eyes again and looked down at her fingers and the pen that they were still wrapped around. “I can’t believe I’m giving HG Wells the big-brother talk,” she told them. Then she looked up, meeting Helena’s eyes very seriously. “Just don’t hurt her, okay?” she said. “I mean, I’m kinda biased towards you right now for saving my life and being a general badass and all, but you haven’t been around for long, so… if you’re not serious about this, you better stop right now, chop-chop, on the double and so on. Cause that’s _not_ how Myka rolls, and if it’s how you roll, you’ll break her heart and then I’ll have to break every bone in your body.”

Helena’s eyebrow shot up. Big-brother talk – she understood that expression. She hadn’t heard it from Charles, but the concept had been around for far longer, and here she was, having it directed at her from someone a fraction her age, someone whose life she had saved on this very day. Her lips twitched into a wry smile. 

“I can, you know,” Claudia insisted, trying to bulk herself up in her chair. “Aaand I’ll also hack you and steal your money and destroy your reputation and get you jailed.” She snapped her finger. “Easy as that.”

“That, I actually believe,” Helena said, then raised her hands appeasingly. “I appreciate your sentiment,” she added. “And I’m glad Myka has a friend like you.” It was her turn to look at her hands now. “I _am_ serious about this.” She debated for a moment. “So serious, in fact, that I don’t even know where to begin.”

Claudia looked stunned for a moment. Then she squealed. “Dude, that is beyond adorbs.” She leaned forwards conspiratorially, threatening posture instantly melting away. “If you need any help, I’ll… uh…” she shrugged. “I guess I’ll try? I mean it’s not like I’m a pro at giving relationship adv-”

“Courtship,” Helena quickly cut in. “Courtship first, then relationship.” She chuckled. “Unless two ships are too much?”

Claudia squealed again. “Man, it’s so weird when you pick up words like that.” She beamed at Helena. “We’ll do this,” she reassured her. “We’ll make this ship set sail. Seal-the-deal fist bump.” She held up her fist at eye level, knuckles first, then extended it towards Helena. “Ball your fist too, then bump it against mine,” she explained. “If you want to be fancy, we can explode it afterwards. I’ll show you. First the bump, though.” 

~^~^~

Thus, Helena won an ally. Ophie had _said_ not to do things on her own, after all, although that probably hadn’t been what she’d meant. Nevertheless, Claudia’s input had proven invaluable.


	8. Chapter 8

Ophie’s breath was slow and even. She was fast asleep, Helena judged, and therefore wouldn’t wake up when Helena, in a soft, low voice, told her what had happened after that first Star Trek evening.

-_-_-

Myka lingered as we all walked out of Pete’s room, accompanying me to my door. “I hope you had a good evening,” she said as we reached it. 

“I did, yes,” I replied with a smile. “Having my emotions battered by a television show was certainly outweighed by being included in – what did Pete call it? Team bonding?” I added dryly. 

Myka laughed and nodded. “Good,” she said firmly, then leaned back against the jamb of my door with her arms crossed. “I mean, even if you’re not officially back on duty yet, it’s gotta feel good to be part of something, right? After all, you’re kinda out of your time, aren’t you? Don’t you-” I could see her stop herself, as clearly as I saw the apologetic smile. 

“I do feel lonely at times,” I answered her unspoken question. “And yes, tonight has very much helped that.” I tilted my head in invitation. “Would you like to come on in for a cup of tea to end the night on a quieter note?”

Myka smiled and pushed herself off the doorjamb. “I would very much like that, yes.”

When we were seated and the kettle that Leena had provided was doing its job, Myka leaned forwards. “I, um…” she began, and then fell silent again, searching for words. “I realize I’ve been giving you a hard time,” she said finally, and I immediately shook my head. Yes, she had been somewhat less cordial, more polite with me than with her colleagues since I moved in – but that was only to be expected, seeing as said move had only happened three weeks ago, whereas her colleagues and she had been a team for far longer than that. Seeing as before that, our first encounter had been in London, as adversaries, and the second had been me pleading with her to be my guide to the present world. We weren’t a team yet, hadn’t yet solved puzzles and saved the day together. She barely knew me. And still she had fulfilled my request to be my guide with diffidence, affability, and a wealth of information. So I knew that if she was reserved when it came to the more personal questions, that was simply because she was still withholding judgement of me. Unlike others, or one other rather, who already had made up his mind not to like me.

Therefore, “Certainly much less so than others,” I told her, thinking of how Artie still refused to even acknowledge my presence in the Bed and Breakfast.

“Yeah, okay, Artie is worse,” Myka nodded, obviously thinking along the same lines, “but he’s still grieving, right? And his behaviour made me think, you know. He’s the only one left of his team. Well, except Mrs. Frederic, but she’s not really a member of anyone’s team, right?”

“She probably would not have joined that stack of hands,” I agreed, one eyebrow up at my hairline.

Myka nodded again, rolling her eyes with a lopsided smirk. “Right?” she asked back, in what I was learning was an expression of agreement. “So, anyway, I was thinking that maybe it’s difficult for him, seeing us, I mean Claudia, Leena, Pete and me, being all team-y, realizing that he’s just not a part of that. And then I thought that all the teams you were ever a part of are…” her voice petered out once more. 

“Dead,” I finished her thought. “You can say it. I have come to terms with it.”

“Have you really, though?” Myka asked back, head tilted. Then her eyes widened, and her cheeks flushed. “Sorry, I mean, I realize that that was a very personal question, and if you don’t want to talk about it, that’s totally understandable and okay. But I can’t help remembering how worried you were last week about what happened when Pete and I retrieved Man Ray’s camera, and I can’t help thinking that you’re trying to make a friend.” She smiled. “And friends might talk about these things. So if you do want to, I’m… I’m down with that, okay?”

I couldn’t help but return her smile. Here I was, worrying how best to go about befriending her, and her she was, well on her way to meeting me halfway. “Have I succeeded, then?” I asked. “In making a friend?”

Myka’s smile turned a little self-deprecating. “Well, full disclosure: I’m not very good at that whole friend thing,” she said. “I kinda never saw the point of socializing like my sister did, always hanging out with people and talking about God-knows-what, movie stars and their affairs and stuff like that.” One of her shoulders twitched in a half-hearted shrug. “Or classmates and their affairs, I guess,” she added. “It always seemed so… shallow, you know? I’d much rather discuss things like why do we think there is a ‘correct’ timeline which has to be preserved, but I never really could find anyone to discuss that with until now.” She shrugged again, albeit with a smile this time. “Also, I guess friendships with Pete and Leena just happen because they befriend people, I didn’t have to do anything for that. And Claudia – Claudia is like a younger sister, but with shared interests, so we kinda fell into place automatically.”

“And I?” I asked when it became obvious that, unprompted, Myka would not say more.

Myka blushed a little, dipping her head, then jumped up as the tea kettle, starting the roar that signalled the right temperature, offered an obviously welcome distraction. “Um, I…” she began. Her back was turned, but I could still see the pink in the tips of her ears. “If I offered to make the tea,” she continued over her shoulder, “would that offend your English sensibilities?”

“I would never be offended by the offer.” I raised an eyebrow. Little did she know that my endeavours at making tea for myself had been hit and miss so far. I’ve never been fond of kitchens and the work done in them – workshops, yes, laboratories, yes. Kitchens? ‘You have to learn these things to be a good wife, Helena,’ my mother’s voice would echo in my mind whenever I set foot in one. God forbid. “By the outcome, potentially,” I added, because sometimes I cannot help myself. As an Englishwoman alone among Americans, there are some standards that I feel I must uphold. 

I observed as Myka picked a tea from my selection, measured out the leaves, poured the water, set the timer, poured the hot water into two cups to warm them. When Myka turned around and blushed at my attention, I gave her a reassuring nod. “Nothing that I would’ve done differently, darling,” I said, trying to memorize what she’d done for my next attempt. 

“Oh! Um, good.” Myka scrunched up her nose. “I picked a green tea,” she added, “something light and soothing since it’s so late.”

“Yes, the Sencha,” I nodded my approval. “A good choice. You’re quite right; I bought that one for evenings.” It had never been the choice of leaves that had me stumped, after all.

Myka smiled, her relief obvious. “Jeez, I haven’t been this nervous about preparing tea since that one afternoon with my fencing teacher, Katsushima-san,” she confessed, laughing breezily. The timer beeped and caused her to turn around once more, discard the clear water from the cups back into the kettle, pick up the little strainer, and pour the tea. “I hope it’s okay that I drained the cups into the kettle,” she said. “I’ll pour it out when we’re done.”

“That’s perfectly alright,” I said, waving one hand, accepting the cup that Myka offered with the other, feeling bold enough to brush my fingers across Myka’s hand as I did so in a little reminiscence of her cuffing me during our first encounter in London. If she noticed, she did not show it. So I turned my attention to the cup in my hand and inhaled its steam deeply. “Full marks, to go by the scent,” I said with a smile. “Extra marks for warming the cups, too,” I added, committing that detail to memory. “You’ll have to wait a moment for the taste marking; I might have spent more than a century in Bronze, but I am made of flesh and blood, and would rather not burn my tongue.”

Myka grinned, sitting down on her accustomed chair, blowing into her own cup. “Totally agreed,” she replied, raising the cup in an ironic toast. 

We both sat in silence for a while, waiting for the tea to cool sufficiently for drinking. 

“You know,” said Myka, half hiding behind her cup, “speaking of a century in Bronze…” She paused, searching for words while I wondered what on Earth might come next. “I, uh… I know that you… um, have bad dreams,” she said finally, and took a long sip of tea. “I, um, I can… you know, hear it.” She pointed to the wall between her room and mine. 

Her words made me seriously consider using my cup as a hiding prop as well. I could feel a muscle in my eyelid twitch while I contemplated how best to respond to this. It was true – I had been having nightmares, almost every night. Acquiring a night light (and blessed be the soul of the person who had invented them) had helped; its dim illumination helped me realize I was not in the Bronze anymore whenever I woke up from _those_ dreams. But nightmares about being in Bronze were not the only ones that haunted me. 

Eventually, I had to take a sip, and a deep breath. _Friends._ You had told me to find help; Leena had, right when I moved into the Bed and Breakfast, advised the same, had offered an open ear, too. And now Myka was, more or less, giving me an opening, too. “You’re right,” I replied. “And I’m frightfully sorry that they disturbed your sleep.”

“Oh, no, no no no, that’s… that’s not what I was getting at,” Myka replied immediately, eyes wide. “What I wanted to say is…” her gaze dropped to the teacup in her hands, delving into its fragrant depth. Then she met my eyes again, “Is there anything I can do to help?”

I simply stared at her, at a loss for words. “Oh,” I managed, after a moment. I most certainly had not anticipated this much… forwardness. Then again, you did seek me out of your accord, too; I should perhaps have known that this was a character trait not related to me specifically.

Myka noticed my discomfort – another character trait, this noticing of things, and far more obvious. “I’m sorry,” she said, gripping the tea cup in a stranglehold. “I guess it’s not strictly stiff upper lip, keep calm and carry on, et cetera. And if you’re good on your own, that’s totally okay, of course,” she added quickly. “I get that. Some of us,” she smirked self-ironically, “aren’t really good at taking their stuff to someone else.” She looked down at her tea as if only remembering then that it was there, finished it, and leaned forward to put the cup on the low table between the two chairs. “It’s just… if you, you know, want to talk, or just… just not be alone, you can always drop by. I wouldn’t mind.” She stood up and picked up the kettle. “I’m, ah, I’m gonna go and drain this real quick, okay?”

I nodded, still dumbstruck. I had not yet found words to reply when Myka came back, lingering between the side table that held the tea paraphernalia and the door. 

“So, just, um…” Myka said, smiling a little at my continued and, it pains me to say it, open-mouthed silence, “I just wanted you to know, okay? And, um, thanks for the tea. I really liked it.” And with that, she was gone. 

I snapped my mouth shut and spent a long time staring at the cooling tea in my cup. _Well, full marks for the hand of friendship_ , shot through my head at last. 

Only a fortnight later, Myka was at my door again.

“Do you, um… do you have a moment?” she asked, biting her lip and glancing more at my tea set than at myself, one finger running up and down the seam of her trouser leg almost aggressively.

“Of course,” I said immediately, closing the laptop on which I had been studying road rules and regulations for my driver’s test – a license had not been among the documents provided by the Warehouse, with the reasoning that some things should actually be taught and learned. “Please, sit down,” I added, noticing Myka’s nervousness. “I shall make the tea tonight.”

“Oh my god, you hated my attempt the other night,” Myka groaned, but she did come in and she did sit down. 

“I most certainly did not,” I reassured her, “quite the contrary. But you seem preoccupied, so why don’t you tell me what worries you while I prepare the Sencha?”

Myka flopped back in her chair, breath leaving her in a rush. “I almost had to draw my gun on Pete today,” she said very, very softly, almost inaudible over the clinks of porcelain I couldn’t help but produce, no matter how much care I took. “He got whammied by an artefact that…” she shook her head and pulled her legs up, hugging her knees, “made him super paranoid about everything. I… I couldn’t get through to him. I almost lost him – I almost had to shoot him. It was so close.” She looked up at me. I stood rooted to the spot by her words, teaspoon in one hand, can of Sencha in the other. “So close.” Her voice trembled.

This was not the time to be making tea. I carefully replaced the tin and teaspoon on the sideboard, then crossed the space to Myka’s chair. As I knelt down beside it, I put one hand on Myka’s clasped hands. “‘Almost’ means it did not happen, Myka,” I said gently. 

“Well, not this time, anyway,” Myka said in a dark voice. Her hands let go of each other, one squeezing mine briefly, the other running across her face in a gesture of weariness. With a deep sigh, Myka continued, “I just… I mean, when you think about getting whammied, you think about, I don’t know, all your hair turning pink, or, or, or literally seeing things in black and white or something. You don’t think about suddenly being ninety, or suddenly thinking everyone’s conspiring against you, you know?”

My breath caught in my throat, and my heart skipped not one, but several beats. Suddenly being ninety? Was that what had happened in New York? She’d never actually told me, but… _I’ve come this far. Bloody hell, I stepped into the Bronze of my own free will, for seventy years, just to meet her again_ – my blood was running cold. _I can’t lose her. I already lost decades of Christina’s life! The thought of… of losing-  
_  
“I mean, you’re right,” Myka was continuing, and I shook my head, trying to follow. I had to focus. It hadn’t happened. Myka was right here, and she needed me. She had come to me. I needed to be there for her, therefore, present and undistracted. “It didn’t happen; it didn’t get that far,” she said, her eyes gratefully rolling to heaven for a brief moment. “Artie rigged something that saved the day, but it was…” she gritted her teeth. “Too close for comfort.” 

“Well.” I rocked back on my heels, wiped the cold sweat of my palms on my trousers, and stood up. “Comfort, I can provide,” I told her with as much of a smile as I could muster. “In the form of a steaming cup of Sencha,” I clarified when Myka looked at me quickly and confusedly.

“Oh!” Myka laughed, a bit too breezily, a bit too brightly. “Yeah.” Her eyes closed briefly, and she hung her head. Then she laughed again, much more subdued, but also much truer. “Here you go offering me support when only the other night, it was me who told you that you could come to me with your nightmares.”

“It’s what friends do for each other,” I said, and, when Myka’s head snapped up to look at me in bafflement, I added with a smirk, “You didn’t think your offer of friendship would be reciprocated?” 

Myka rolled her eyes and buried her head in her hands, but at least she did so with another laugh. “I guess it _is_ a mutual thing, huh?”

“Very much so,” I reassured her and turned the kettle on.


	9. Chapter 9

Helena woke to hazel eyes regarding her intently. And just as she’d known Ophie’s gaze yesterday, so she was sure now that it was Myka who was looking at her. And just as she’d known then how much she’d missed Ophie and how happy she was to see her, she now realized she’d missed Myka equally, if not more strongly. If there was such a distinction at all to be made, that was. 

“Good morning,” she said quietly. “How are you?”

“I’m… okay, I guess,” Myka replied after a moment’s introspection. “Not even mad at you, you know.”

This woke Helena up faster than strong black coffee. “Mad at me?”

Myka snorted a laugh. “ _Not_ , babe. The operative word in that sentence was ‘not.’” She shrugged. “I… I know what… I remember what Ophie did. What the two of you did, in 1940. How you worked together. How you changed history, up to and including last Friday with Sykes.” She shuddered. “I know how _her_ Friday went.” She surged forwards and cannoned into Helena’s arms. “How could I possibly be mad when I’m just happy you’re alive?” she whispered fiercely. 

Helena had never been very good at mornings, and this one was no exception. Rather than trying to follow Myka’s train of thought, she simply rolled with it, trusting that it made sense – Myka’s trains usually did. Except when Myka worked herself into assumptions about what Helena (or Myka’s father, of all people) could have possibly meant with whatever thing Helena (or Warren) had said at the time. 

They had gotten better with that particular issue. At least Helena and Myka had; Warren and Myka would probably take the rest of their natural lifetimes to figure each other out. 

An indiscernible while later, Myka moved in Helena’s arms, pulling back and raising her head to look at her. “I’m not mad, but I’m officially pissed that you didn’t tell me any of this. For the record.”

“But-” Helena began to protest, and Myka cut her off with a quick, full kiss to her lips. 

“I _know_ , babe.” Myka’s groan was pure frustration. “I know why you didn’t, I know why it was necessary that you didn’t, I know all that. I don’t want you to apologize; I don’t need you to apologize. I understand. That’s making me extra angry, by the way, but not at you. If anything, I’m mad at Mrs. Frederic.” She scowled. “Whose hands, I guess, were also bound.” She flopped her head back onto Helena’s clavicle with almost bruising force. “Ugh. If anything I’m mad at myself. I mean, I had it half-figured out anyway.”

“You had?” At Helena’s question, Myka simply raised her head again and stared at her. “Of course you had,” Helena realized. 

“It wasn’t that far-fetched, especially considering you had built a time machine.” This time, Myka set her head down more gently, resting her chin on her hands on Helena’s collarbone. “There were just too many coincidences – the things you knew, things like at which time you had to be in which place to do which specific thing – that could only be explained by having some kind of foreknowledge, some kind of manual.” She suddenly laughed. “I just wouldn’t have thought that I’d co-authored it! Or some version of me anyway,” she added more soberly. 

“You never mentioned your theories,” Helena marvelled.

“I did, remember? And you brushed me off.”

“I didn’t,” Helena protested. “I specifically told you that I wished I could tell you more, and I promised that as soon as I could, I would. I might not have your prowess with memories, but I remember that much!”

Myka closed her eyes for a moment. “You said you had met with Warehouse agents from a different future. Agents who had lost half their team, their Warehouse, their Caretaker, Pandora’s Box – you had to explain that one to me.”

“And Irene wasn’t happy that I did,” Helena added with a sigh, then motioned for Myka to go on. 

“You said that they had lost so much,” Myka continued. “Friends, partners, people they loved. Hope. That it was hard to see someone grieve like that, harder still to know you couldn’t help.”

“It made me realize how Wolly and Caturanga must have felt when I was grieving for Christina,” Helena said softly. “I’ll never be able to thank them, for what they did to help me. Each time I talked with Ophie about the Helena she knew, I realized that Wolly and Caturanga’s friendship was one of the things that kept me from going down her path.”

Myka unfolded one of her hands from under her chin and ran a finger down Helena’s jaw. “Knowing what Ophie knew about her Helena, I’d like to thank them too.” They lay in silence for a while. Then Myka continued, “I had a hunch that you were talking about me, us, this Warehouse, but it… it sounded so bleak; I didn’t want it to be us. I mean, it had to be; otherwise how would you know details about our cases? But I just… I just didn’t _want_ that to be true. I guess that was the major reason why I didn’t really go on digging.”

“It was bleak,” Helena agreed. “I’ve never seen desolation such as I saw in Ophie’s eyes. Claudia and Artie too, but I saw them less often, and we weren’t as close – obviously.” 

“I should hope not,” Myka murmured, eyebrow raised. She sighed. “I… have this memory, of Ophie, thinking that you laughed so often. That’s a bleak one too. Every time she saw you laugh, it would drive home what her Helena had lost, how Ophie had never seen her laugh as freely, as light-heartedly. She would have given anything, anything, to see her again, but she’d have given her life to see her laugh like that.”

“She did.” Tears were welling in Helena’s eyes. “She and Artie and Claudia – they all could have demanded the Doctor just take them back to their present. Find a different way forward; find a different solution for the Warehouse. Even when the Doctor told them what it would cost them, they stuck with his plan, though.”

“Ophie wasn’t sure they had much choice at that point, I can tell you that,” Myka muttered darkly. Then her eyes went wide. “Hang on – Pandora’s box! That’s what- that’s why Ophie’s memories feel so bleak! She was present when her world’s hope died. She must have brought the effects along even to the other timeline when she worked with you on your time machine.”

Helena nodded slowly. “That makes a lot of sense, now that you mention it,” she said. “She did seem driven, but more with concern for seeing the Doctor’s plan through and… and for helping me,” she added with a sigh. 

Myka nodded as well. “Her memories do feel as though she’d given up on herself,” she said quietly. She closed her eyes for a moment, then, without opening them, wound her arms around Helena and clung to her for a moment. 

Then she said, “You’re here.” A wild laugh jarred Helena’s ears. _This isn’t Myka, this is Ophie_ , Helena thought, and was proven right when the woman in her arms drew back and looked up at Helena. Bleakness was indeed a good descriptor for Ophie, although there was a small spark of hope re-ignited in them now. At the moment, it was being battled by disbelief, though. “ _I’m_ here.” A scoff. “I mean, for a given value of ‘here’ and ‘I,’ but…”

Helena, realizing her arms were still around Ophie, squeezed. “You _are_ here.”

“I’m in a body that isn’t really mine, though,” Ophie said grimly. 

Helena couldn’t argue that. “That’s what the Doctor said would be the task of the next few days,” she told Ophie. “How to integrate both your memories and Myka’s so that one wouldn’t take over the other.” Curiosity made her pull back a little, trying to catch Ophie’s eyes. “Is it… can you tell me more about what it is like?” she asked. “Did you change deliberately, just now, or did that just happen?”

“I think it just happened,” Ophie frowned. “I don’t think I did anything to make it happen. To answer your other question,” she continued with a tense sigh, “I’m in a body that both does and doesn’t feel like mine, and I remember things that I’m sure didn’t happen to me, but they did, only not to this me, but to the other me. And then I wonder, is it Myka thinking these things or Ophie? Whose memories don’t fit?” She laughed again – less shrill this time, darker, almost despondent. “Who am I, Georgie?” 

“You’re Myka Ophelia Bering,” Helena replied at once. She’d been prepared for this particular question since she stepped into the Bronzer the second time, and then again since Ophie had brought up the matter the day before. Helena hadn’t known when and in which circumstances it would come, but she had known that it would be asked. Bringing up Doctor Bashir again wouldn’t work, she knew; she had tried to think of something else to say. She was glad that Ophie hadn’t pulled away from her, that she still sought the comfort of Helena’s arms. “You’re a Warehouse agent, recruited from the Secret Service. You have an eidetic memory. You are marvellously perceptive. You have a strained relationship with your parents, but you consider your fellow agents your adopted family. You are the woman that I love.” Ophie’s face had closed in on itself the longer Helena spoke, until she was actively shaking her head. “Open your eyes, please,” Helena asked her. Ophie shook her head again. “Darling,” Helena insisted, “please open your eyes.”

“You didn’t even pick a name to call me by just now,” Ophie whispered, eyes still tightly shut. “You chickened out.”

Helena swallowed her first impulsive reply and took an even breath. “The way I see it,” she said, “you are both Myka _and_ Ophie. Her memories might be different from yours, at least some of them, but I think that _you_ , the person in my arms right now, whatever name you choose – you are fully capable of figuring out and reconciling these differences. You are highly intelligent, and you know who you are. Both versions of you know. And I know because I know both versions of you,” Helena added when Ophie opened her mouth to protest. “Working for the Warehouse has given you a good sense of self,” she continued, “of what you’re capable of, of what your values are. No matter what might have changed, this is true and will always be true.” 

Ophie shivered and burrowed even more deeply into Helena’s arms. “It’s… it’s just so weird,” she complained to Helena’s sternum. “How do you reconcile having two distinct sets of memories when you think of one occasion?” She shuddered again, and suddenly Helena understood.

“Your memory has always been dependable,” she stated her suspicion, which was confirmed when Ophie nodded instantly. Helena kissed the crown of her head. “It still is, you know. As you said, it is simply two memories for one instant.” She pondered the wisdom of her next words for a moment, then decided to simply say them. “Like the Star Trek reboot?” she offered.

Ophie groaned. “There you go again!” she said. “I told you; stop it with the modern references.” Nevertheless, she finally looked at Helena. Several emotions flickered across her face – exasperation, realization, tenderness, weariness. Ophie yawned. “I still can’t believe you’re here,” she said. “I… I kept telling myself that everything would be okay because you’d be with your family and I… would simply find someone else to love. I wouldn’t even know you, wouldn’t know what I could have had.” She huffed a laugh. “I tried so hard to be noble. To be selfless. I guess saying that I lost hope isn’t too far off the mark.” Her eyes were far away. Then they snapped back to the present, suddenly welling. “You’re here,” she whispered.

“And I’m not going anywhere,” Helena said, because Ophie’s arms were clinging to her once more with rib-crushing strength. Ophie’s reaction was to sob, just the one anguished sound, and to pull her even closer. 

Helena held her during this silent surge of crying; through the mounting, the cresting, and the waning. Murmuring nonsensical words that were more about tone of voice than about content, pressing kisses on hair, cheek, brow that might or might not be remembered by the recipient, Helena was reminded of the last time she had seen Ophie cry like this, and realized that while she was here to soothe Ophie again, she wasn’t who Ophie was crying for. She wasn’t Ophie’s Helena – she was Georgie, and the relationship she remembered wasn’t with Ophie, it was with Myka. Ophie was still grieving and would always grieve for her Helena. Ophie didn’t have fourteen months of relationship memories and habits to fall back on, and if Helena did, even by accident, Ophie might not recognize them or, worse, deem them assumptions and object to them. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered into Ophie’s hair. “I wish I…” her voice trailed off.

Ophie gave a small, sad hiccup of a laugh. “Yeah.” She pulled back, found a tissue on the bed-side table, and blew her nose. Then she looked at Helena with red-rimmed eyes. “The same goes for you, too, though, in a way,” she said. “I mean, you’re not the Helena I remember, but you’re still Helena ‘Georgie’ Wells.”

“Helena George Wells, as matters stand,” Helena revealed with a chuckle. “Somehow word of my nickname must have gotten into one of the journals or notebooks that MacPherson found, so that when he presented me with travel papers, that was the name on them.” She huffed a laugh. “And I thought, why not? When Irene asked if I wanted to change it back to my original middle name for my ‘official’ paperwork,” Helena delicately dropped the finger quotes around the word, “I declined.”

Ophie snorted. “You,” she said. “That’s so like you.”

“Thereby proving your point that I’m still me, I assume,” Helena replied demurely. 

“Yup.” Ophie stretched, sniffled, found another tissue, blew her nose again. “I mean I can see where and how you’re different, and I think I have a pretty good idea why, too. But you’re also very recognizably yourself. And I guess,” she swung her legs out of bed and sat up, “if I can see that in you, I can work on recognizing that in myself.” She turned around to Helena. “What would you say to coffee?”

“I’d say ‘good morrow, oh thou fragrant elixir of wakefulness,’” Helena replied, also getting up. “Let’s to the kitchen forthwith.”

Ophie laughed out loud. “No need to overwhelm me with your Britishness, Georgie. You’ve lost any rights to your British passport the moment you went for coffee over tea.”

“I’ll have you know that coffeehouses are a long-standing tradition in England,” Helena said archly as they walked out their room, and proceeded to explain about Lloyd’s of London and penny universities all the way down to the kitchen.


	10. Chapter 10

Now that we’re fortified, would you like to hear about our first cases together? Oh! Of course I can tell you about what happened before that. 

Dawn was breaking outside my sick room window. I’d been awaiting this day eagerly, more than I had any other since waking up in this room ten days ago. For one thing, depending on how the next twelve hours proceeded, Doctor Calder had announced that the last sensor attached to me, which monitored my heartbeat in blessed silence but would beep incessantly if said beat rose to over twenty per cent above my resting heart rate, could finally be removed. For another, I had finally managed all my morning toiletries unaided and without having to sit down, which meant that I was now allowed to leave the bed without supervision. It was just as much of a first, just as much of an improvement, as having a solid meal – well, semi-solid: soup – the day before had been. 

After being apprehended by the agents and being brought to this medical facility that the Regents had built, it took me two days to wake up from my coma, and seven more days to reach any kind of stability. I do not care much to remember them, so I won’t go into much detail here – ‘havoc’ is a good descriptor for what it will do to a body to be recently unbronzed, and then be tesla’d while wearing the Imperceptor Vest, while adapting to a century’s worth of germ evolution. I simply was glad for the advances in medicine that Doctor Calder and the nurses visited upon me – whenever I was aware enough to be glad about anything. Therefore, eating under my own power, and keeping the meal down, was definitely a step forward. 

_Progress_ , I thought to myself. _Now if only eleven o’clock would finally come around_. I carefully rolled the still-attached monitor over to the set of two chairs and a table, sat down, and turned on my laptop to while away the hours until then. 

Even though Irene had, in our conversations while I was bronzed, informed me about – hm? Oh! Yes. She’d found an artefact to contact me and allow us to talk, in a very welcome attempt to keep me sane. She couldn’t visit me as often as I would have liked without arousing suspicion, but she did drop by quite regularly, and kept me appraised of inventions like computers and the internet, space travel, political developments of the times, whatever occupied her mind on the days that she came to see me. All of this I had kept from MacPherson, of course. Nevertheless, hearing about a thing does not mean I have actual knowledge of it – I had never seen a laptop before MacPherson presented me with one, never used a mouse, never browsed the internet. So in a way, I had MacPherson to thank for my actual understanding of this aspect of modern technology – not that he had been aware of his mistake when he presented me with said technology. And it _had_ been a mistake, allowing me so much more independence from his assistance than his vanity ever thought possible. Needless to say, I took to it like a fish to water, especially once I figured out how to use search engines.

Browsing the internet was a much more worthwhile pastime than musing about my upcoming visitor. I’d caught myself doing the latter several times yesterday, after Irene, the day before that, had agreed to forward my inquiry to Agent Bering. Caught myself trying to envision this version of Myka Bering, two years and an unknown number of heartaches younger than the version I had met in 1940. Caught myself trying to extrapolate from the brief contacts I’d had with her in this present, first back in London and then among the shelves of Warehouse 13. Told myself that musing and comparing was ill-mannered and served no purpose, just as Wolly had reminded me. 

The internet it was, therefore. And the fact that the pages I was looking up dealt with the Secret Service, how many female agents worked in it, and how one became an agent in the first place, surely had nothing to do with my upcoming visitor at all. I was in the middle of a tangent about laser eye surgery when I was interrupted by a knock on the door.

I looked at my laptop’s clock. Eleven o’clock precisely. I smiled and called, “Come,” closing the laptop’s lid with a snap. 

“Um, hi,” said Myka Bering, ducking her head as she stepped inside. A pair of dark green trousers – linen from the look of them, loose and thin to better weather the July heat – paid homage to enviably endless legs. They were topped by a grey-and-white striped garment somewhere between a blouse and what I had learned was called a t-shirt. It looked delightfully light and flowing, chosen for its fitness for a summer’s day as well, I’d wager. 

I notice things too, you know. Your body and its accoutrements has always been one of them. Furthermore, this is my story, and I shall tell it as I see fit.

The agent’s hair was not down today, as it had been in London, nor braided, as it had been in the Warehouse, but pulled up into a somewhat sloppy - yes, sloppy - bun, and there was a slight sheen of sweat on her brow – I wondered how hot it was outside today. That had been one of the things that talking with Irene had not prepared me for – the sheer immobilizing heat of summer in South Dakota. 

“Mrs. Frederic told me you, ah, had asked to see me?” Agent Bering’s head was tilted slightly backwards towards the door, as if the Caretaker was right outside in the hall. 

“Indeed I did,” I said, trying to contain my smile, trying to contain my heart’s suddenly increased beat. It would _not_ do to have the monitor go off, to have the duty nurse burst in with medication. “Please do come on in, Agent Bering, and have a seat.” I pointed to the chair opposite hers. 

Agent Bering was still hesitant, still frowning, but sit down she did. “What’s this about?” she asked.

I leaned slightly forward. “First of all,” I began, “I would like to apologize for my deceiving you.” It would not be the last such apology, and I would certainly have to deceive her again, but I did want to start with apologizing for it, trying to set us off to as good a start as I could hope for.

An eyebrow rose sharply over sceptical green eyes. “Okay.” 

“I’ve been told that you’ve been apprised of the situation?” I asked, angling to find out how much exactly Irene had told the agents. 

The Caretaker had been uncharacteristically preoccupied when she had visited me two days ago. She had informed me that, unfortunately, my seizure when tesla’d had caused me to stumble back against the time machine and to snap, with the shoulder pad of my Imperceptor Vest, James MacPherson’s protective necklace. My heart monitor had _definitely_ been set off by that, and Irene had hastened to assure me that the timeline, as far as anyone knew, had not been unduly changed. MacPherson’s mind, back in 1940, would simply not have had a living body to return to, that was all. Oh, I had scoffed. ‘All’ was putting it a bit more cavalierly than I would have. It was far, far too good of a fate for MacPherson, after all he had done. Irene had simply shrugged at that, and, not for the first time, I had pondered how equanimous a Caretaker had to be.

“Well, I’ve – we’ve been told that you’re one of the good guys,” Agent Bering said, eyebrow still riding high on her forehead. “Some kind of hero, even.”

“And you find that hard to believe?” I let a tiny smile creep into my eyes, let my own eyebrow rise a little. 

“Well, it is a bit much,” Myka Bering said with a scoffing huff of laughter, running her hand across the back of her neck. “You know? I mean, first H.G. Wells is in the Bronze sector, right alongside the worst people in the world. Next, she’s a woman, and holding my partner hostage. Next, she dupes us and walks out with a goddamn artefact, right under our noses – literally! Freaking Cavorite.” The agent grimaced expressively, shooting me a look that fell somewhere between dark accusation and grudging acknowledgement. “Next,” Agent Bering went on, “she and MacPherson just… just _waltz_ into the Warehouse easy as pie, rig up an honest-to-god time machine, and then after we apprehend her, she manages to kill MacPherson, again right under our noses, and _then_ we get told she’s the good guy and has been all along.” She shook her head, one stray curl at her neck bobbing with the motion. “And, you know, the file Mrs. Frederic gave us to support this? I haven’t seen so many redacted lines in one document in all my years in the goddamn Secret Service; it was next to useless.” She speared me with another critical look from hazel eyes. “So forgive me if I’m a bit hedgy still.”

I could only bow my head. “Readily,” I said with a regretful quirk of my lips. Myka Bering had more reason to be hedgy than she knew. I took a deep breath. “Can I state for the record, though, that while responsibility for James MacPherson’s death does sit upon my shoulders, I did not mean nor want for it to happen. I regret taking another person’s life, regardless of what kind of a self-serving-” I had to stop myself. Then I looked up at Agent Bering again, eyes hard but candid. “There was no love lost between MacPherson and myself; I honestly can’t say that I’m sorry that he’s dead. What I do regret is that my killing him took away the chance of him standing trial for his deeds.” I pursed my mouth harshly, and then relaxed it a little for my next words. “I realize that you have no reason to believe that I am sincere. Nevertheless, for what it’s worth, I would ask you to convey my condolences to your agent Nielsen. Irene told me that he is greatly troubled by MacPherson’s death.”

Agent Bering huffed out another laugh. “That’s putting it mildly,” she mumbled, her gaze dropping to her hands for a moment, picking an invisible speck of dust off her trouser leg. “Look,” she said, her eyes meeting mine again, “I’ll be honest with you. Artie is family, okay? And we’re protective of each other. And yeah, MacPherson tried to kill us; he even came after my mother and father. So I totally get not being sad to see him gone, but – I can see how conflicted Artie is about the whole thing, and that’s…” she grimaced and shook her head, “not a good start to this.” Her hand pointed from herself to me and back again. “Whatever this is.”

I nodded. “I do understand,” I said. “In that case, please let me add that I am grateful that you decided to come,” I added. 

“Well,” Myka Bering grinned a lopsided smile. “Regardless of everything else, I really can’t deny that there’s a tiny part of me,” she held up a hand, thumb and forefinger a minuscule distance apart, “that’s intrigued by the fact that H.G. Wells is, in fact, a woman, and a Warehouse agent on top of that.” She blushed, and her mouth quirked in annoyance with herself at it. “There aren’t exactly many women in the Secret Service, you know-” I did, but I could hardly tell her that I’d spent the morning looking up that and other facts about the Secret Service, “-and the thought of a female Warehouse agent a century ago is pretty kick-ass all by itself.”

I could not help my mouth curving upwards and my eyes lighting up. “It certainly wasn’t easy,” I said, “and, in case this betters your opinion of me, I was the first, and for a long time the only.” And since I was smiling already, and since Agent Bering did not seem to mind, I allowed one eyebrow to rise a bit further. “Certainly the best bloody agent regardless of sex,” I added.

Agent Bering laughed out loud at that, and oh, did I have to fight to keep my reaction to that from showing on my face. You had _never_ laughed like that; I was patently not prepared for the phenomenon that was Myka Bering’s laughter. “Full of yourself, aren’t you?” Agent Bering leaned forward, eyes dancing still. “I might have read your case files from the 1880s; those that weren’t redacted, anyway,” she said conspiratorially, then dropped her voice to a whisper, nose scrunching up charmingly. “And I think you’re right. About that at least.” She sat straighter, actually tugged her t-shirt back into order, and added, much more serious now, “It’s just – I don’t get how… I mean, reading those files, you seemed…” she broke off, searching for words. Then, apparently having found some, she took a deep breath and said, very quickly, “I don’t understand why they bronzed you.” A frown flitted across her face. “I mean… if you’re a… a hero and all.”

An equally brief smile ran across my face. “I understand your curiosity,” I told her, “and I’m aware that it will not exactly help my case, but I’d much rather tell that story at another time.” I took a deep breath. “Rest assured, please,” I added, “that it was not because I can be counted among the worst people in the world.” Well. I had to try and deflect her curiosity, didn’t I?

Myka Bering’s would not have it. Her mouth quirked in another half-frown. “So Mrs. Frederic told us. But I’m gonna need more than that, you know? They bronzed you twice – twice!” She shook her head. “And after what you told us about being aware while you’re in there, and knowing that the Regents know that, too – what on Earth did you do to make them do that to you?”

I sighed tonelessly, with a brief grimace of unease. This Myka Bering was just as hard to deter as you had been, back in 1940. “The first time,” I replied, “I was bronzed for having stolen a dangerous artefact for my own purposes, and for having caused the-” my voice caught. I kneaded my fingers, longing for something to fiddle with to calm me down. Taking a shaky breath instead, I continued, “-the death of my colleague, William Wolcott, while he attempted to retrieve it.” I met Myka’s eyes squarely, my voice growing steely. “Both of these were lies, brought forth by the man who actually stole the artefact in question, Victor Crowley, an agent with misguided beliefs about glory and fatherland.” I had talked with Irene about this – necessary subterfuge or not, Crowley’s lies were not something I had any intention to let stand, most certainly not in a conversation with Myka Bering. There was enough dancing around half-truths as it was. This one would not be among them; I had been adamant about that.

“Then why didn’t you defend yourself? I’m sure that you could have proven that he’d lied.”

“You have to understand, Agent Bering,” I said forcefully, “that at that point I had been mourning my daughter, my Christina, for over two years. And during those years Wolcott had been the closest thing I had to a friend. If not for him and Caturanga, another more senior agent equal to your Agent Nielsen – if not for the two of them, I…” a bitter, sharp smile, completely free of humour, crossed my face when I thought of what you had told me your Helena. “I probably would have succumbed to insanity over my grief. So when Wolcott and I fought against Crowley and his miscreants, and I thought I saw him killed by the artefact we were trying to recover, I was inconsolable, beside myself – quite deranged. I was consumed by the notion that I had failed to save him, just as I’d failed to save my daughter two years previously. I was certainly in no shape to counter the accusations brought forth against me.” Another smile, equally bitter, chased the first. 

“What you also need to know,” I continued, “is that apart from Wolcott and Caturanga, I did not have anyone on my side in the Warehouse. The Regents barely tolerated me for my success in finding artefacts; the other agents were indifferent at best, hostile at worst. You’ve read the reports, Agent Bering; you must have seen the sneers between the lines. Ever since I started as an agent, I had been up against this. Faced with Wolly’s death, my self-appointed blame, my colleagues’ accusations and ceaseless antagonism, my seemingly everlasting grief over my Christina…” I grimaced again. “I had no fight left in me. The Regents even gave me a choice.” I spat a bitter laugh at the memory. “At least that’s what they called it. I could go into the Bronze, or be sent to Bedlam, where my ramblings about a secret organisation that collected artefacts would not find credence.” My chin came up. “I don’t know how much you know about mental hospitals of that time, Agent Bering, but believe me – it was not a viable option. So the Bronze it was.”

Agent Bering nodded, eyes stormy and jaw working. “I understand,” she said quietly. “And I’m sorry about your daughter.”

I returned her nod with a heavy heart. “Thank you,” I replied, wishing upon all the stars in the universe that I could simply tell the agent that her condolences were, happily, unnecessary. “While I don’t know how much the redacted file you’ve been given corroborate my words, this is what happened in 1899.” I leaned back slightly, finally releasing my fingers which settled in my lap. “As for my second Bronzing, I regret that I have to tell you that I am not at liberty to speak to you about it.” I smiled apologetically. “I am truly sorry for that; I do want to answer your questions, but even though it has been almost seventy years, the events that led to it are not quite done happening yet; thus the Warehouse’s need for confidentiality.”

Myka Bering set her jaw. “I’m not good with this kind of secrecy,” she said tersely. “But I guess I’ll have to be, for now.” One corner of her mouth came up in what I thought was half smile, half expression of frustration. Watching her facial expressions and comparing them to yours would have been a pastime I could have spent many happy hours at, but it hardly seemed appropriate at that time. As things stood, I was simply glad that Agent Bering seemed willing to give me the time of day – time which I intended to use not simply for retrieving the artefacts you and I had talked about, but also for getting to know this Myka Bering, heeding Wolly’s advice of letting things evolve as they would. 

Myka Bering leaned forward, sliding her hands over her legs and resting her weight on her forearms. “You still haven’t told me what this is about, though.”

“I haven’t, have I,” I gave back, stalling slightly, unsure which words would best express my entreaty. Finally, I continued, “I had hoped you might help me get acquainted with this new era. While I did receive some information both from MacPherson and Irene Frederic,” I added, “there is still such a lot that I have missed or…” I hesitated. This was not an easy thing to admit. “Or that I don’t understand,” I brought myself to say, “and I find myself quite at sea. I would like you to… explain matters to me. Be my guide, so to speak. If you want to, that is.” I looked at Myka, breath bated, anxious to see how my request was received.

Agent Bering’s mouth dropped open ever so slightly. And while she sought for words to – I assume –answer my question, a sudden warning beep from the heart rate monitor made her jump and me blush. “Oh my gosh,” she blurted, submitting me to a wide-eyed stare. “This really means a lot to you, doesn’t it?” When I mutely nodded, Agent Bering smiled with just as much spark as she had when she’d told me that I was full of myself – which I was not feeling at this moment, certainly. “I mean, wow,” she grinned. “I never actually made someone’s heart spike before.”

“I find that hard to believe,” I scoffed before I could stop myself, then clamped my mouth shut. 

Agent Bering laughed once more. There were, I resolved privately, no lengths I would not go to in order to make Myka Bering laugh. “You do, huh,” she said. “Well, then I assume it’s just your bad luck that you happen to be hooked up to a monitor.” Nodding her head once, markedly, she added, “For the record, and for your cardiac health: yes, I will be your guide.” I doubt she noticed how her reply gave me license to breathe again. “I’ll come and visit again while you’re here, and once you’re at the B&B it’ll be even easier to explain things to you. Well, if I’m not out on a ping, obviously. Artefact retrieval, I mean,” she added, interpreting my quizzical look correctly. “Driving here is not too big of a deal, and maybe you can get Mrs. F to excuse me from having to do inventory. I mean, what with the two of you being on a first name basis.” 

“Aces,” I beamed. “I shall see what I can do about the dreaded inventory duty,” I added. I held out my hand, and Agent Bering shook it in a respectably business-like manner. 

Then Myka Bering smiled, tilted her head, and let go. “This is actually pretty cool, you know. I mean,” she shrugged one shoulder, smile growing, “what kind of job allows you to meet one of your favourite authors from the nineteenth century and explain, oh, I don’t know,” she waved a hand, “microwaves and traffic lights to,” she laughed, once, obviously delighted, “her.”

“Oh, traffic lights I know already,” I replied genially, feeling quite proud. “Microwaves do sound fascinating, I agree.” And Irene had never mentioned them. Possibly the Caretaker was not interested in hydrodynamics. Then I remembered myself long enough to add, “And although I can’t deny that I appreciate being called one of your favourite authors, Agent Bering, I need to reiterate I did not actually write the books; I-,”

“-supplied the ideas and the research, yeah, yeah,” Agent Bering cut in with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Yeah, I remember. Still, I’d say that ideas and the research that supports them are two thirds of a book, so I’ll stick with ‘favourite author,’ if you don’t mind,” she said, pink-cheeked and defiant at once. “Also, if we’re gonna do this? Feel free to call me Myka, okay?”

I gratefully inclined my head. “Myka it shall be - and Helena for me, if you please.”

Both our heads turned around when there was a knock on the door. “Come,” I acknowledged it. 

“Are you alright, Miss Wells?” Nurse Benson asked, opening the door just wide enough to pop their head through. “It was only a short spike, but I still thought I’d better check in on you.”

“I’m fine, Nurse Benson,” I reassured them. “Just a brief moment of excitement.”

“Thought so,” Benson nodded and smiled. “Besides, I’m sure Agent Bering here would’ve come to get me if things had been really serious.” They grinned and winked at Myka before closing the door behind them again. 

“Perks of being the only occupant,” I quipped, “the nurses know your visitors by name, and their reaction time is close to instantaneous. I suppose I must at least try to not let their undivided attention rise to my head. Goodness knows it’s full enough already.” Another perk was that Nurse Benson had had the time and willingness to explain to me about the singular use of the pronoun ‘they’, and how and why it applied to them. I had appreciated it greatly, both as a personal favour from Benson, and as one of the achievements of the twenty-first century. 

Myka did not smile at my remark. The speed with which Nurse Benson had reacted had obviously reminded her of where exactly they were and why. “Are you... are you really okay?” she asked, leaning forward. “I mean, health-wise?”

I replied with a quirked, lopsided smile. “I have been reasonably well all day yesterday and all morning today.” My smile found some strength in that. “So far, so good, I daresay. I am to be under surveillance here for a while yet, though, Doctor Calder has informed me.”

Myka nodded. “Can I… can I ask what…”

I tilted my head. “What the symptoms are?”

Myka nodded again. “And the prognosis,” she added. “You seized pretty badly when Artie tesla’d you, and…” her smile was apologetic.

“Thank you for your concern,” I said, inclining my head slightly. “I appreciate it.” I leaned back in my chair, rolling my eyes when I recalled the previous day’s conversation with Doctor Calder. “Quite frankly, the symptoms are numerous, and extremely vexing,” I muttered. “Doctor Calder has called my body ‘out of whack,’ which sums it up nicely, I’d say.” I looked back at Myka again, and smiled when I realized that like you, Ophie, Myka would understand most, if not all, of the more medical terms Doctor Calder had used. “If you’re truly interested in them, by all means read the file. Top drawer, not redacted yet.” I nodded towards my bedside cabinet with a smirk. “As for the prognosis – as of yet, there is none. Oh, I expect there might be one tomorrow, since by then I’ll have been on my own two feet for two consecutive days. But until that happens, I don’t see how anyone could predict anything with any kind of accuracy, given the unprecedented nature of my current predicament.” I sighed deeply, then straightened my shoulders and smiled at Myka. “My goal, if that answers your question, is to be released from this place as quickly as possible, and resume my in-person exploration of the twenty-first century. I suppose I must be grateful that I’m still among the living; however,” I added with a glance of distaste around the room, “I will freely admit I’m not a model patient.”

“Eager to get out of here?” Myka asked, returning my smile. “I know the feeling. I hate being in a hospital.” She ducked her head slightly and added, “You know, as a patient.”

I let my smile deepen. “I don’t doubt that.” I relaxed back against the chair’s backrest. “Now, about these microwaves…”

Nurse Benson had announced the end of visiting hours twice already, and twice had been ignored, when, around six o’clock, Doctor Calder strode into my room, barely waiting for her knock to be acknowledged. 

“Ladies,” she said with a brief, understanding smile and professional demeanour, “I hate to be the bad doc here, but I have to break you up. Miss Wells, it is long past the time you should’ve gotten some rest.” She stood in the door, hands in her lab coat’s pockets, thumbs sticking out, every inch the picture of a doctor sternly looking out for her patient’s best interests. 

“Oh gosh, I’m so sorry,” Myka said, scrambling to collect the notes that they’d been amassing all across my table and even the bed. “I really shouldn’t have-”

“Oh nonsense, darling,” I gave back immediately. “If anything, I have you to thank for the fact that this day went by in such a rush. The Bard had it right: Pleasure and action make the hours seem short.” I leaned forward to accept the stack of notes Myka had assembled, and turned to stow them in the second drawer of my bedside cabinet, atop my laptop. 

“Well, retire thee, then,” Myka replied with a laugh and an impatient flapping of hands, “I’m sure Doctor Calder here won’t leave until you’ve changed into jammies and brushed your teeth.”

I could not help myself – I laughed out loud in delight. To hear Myka reply so readily to my tossed-off quote was nothing short of head-spinning, and to have said reply fit our situation so well was an added boon that only served to deepen my joy. It was only when Myka broke our beaming eye contact, stood, and turned to go, that my face fell again. 

“I’ll come back tomorrow,” Myka said, her smile adding wordlessly that she’d seen the change in my expression. “And I’ll bring the book on inventions of the twentieth century I told you about.”

“One book? Bring two. Bring all you have!” I begged, only half joking. 

Doctor Calder caught Myka’s eyes and shook her head, only half admonishing. “One will be plenty, Miss Wells; I do want you to try and get some sleep.”

I inhaled deeply, scowling. “I’ve been in Bronze for-”

“Yes, yes, yes, I know, I know,” the doctor interrupted me with a laugh and an admonishing finger, “but you and I also know that that’s not sleeping, and you _need_ to _rest!_ I’m glad you had such a good day today; I hope tomorrow will be equally good, but unless we know how your body will react to exertion like this, I will err on the conservative side, and there’s nothing you can do about it.” She levelled a stern glare at me, albeit with a twinkle in her eye that took the bite out of it. 

“That’s my cue, I guess,” Myka said, ducking her head with a smile. “Oh, uh – here’s my number and email.” She held out one last bit of paper. “Write if you-” 

“Tomorrow!” Doctor Calder all but shouted, hands thrown in the air, another laugh permeating her words. “Now shoo!”


	11. Chapter 11

“It must have been awful for Helena,” Ophie murmured, running her finger along the rim of her empty coffee mug. “I mean, at least you had Doctor Calder, who really isn’t a stranger to the weird that the Warehouse throws at us. But she – after Helena killed MacPherson in my timeline, she simply disappeared on us. She must have suffered all these things on her own, or at least in a hospital that didn’t have the first idea of what she was going through.” 

They were back in their bedroom again, empty breakfast tray at the foot of the bed, two pyjama-clad women sitting side by side at the head. Sunlight was slanting in through a gap in the curtains, and Pete the Ferret was on his favourite rug, basking in it.

Helena nodded at Ophie’s words. She had thought about that too. She had often re-read her copy of Ophie’s Manual, not just for clues as to the next retrieval, but for hints and ideas of who her counterpart had been, what had driven and motivated her, what she had thought and felt. “You were a saint for giving her as many chances as you did,” she said, not as a reply to Ophie’s musings, but simply to state her thoughts on the matter. 

“Well.” Ophie inhaled deeply and leaned her head against the bed’s headboard. “I’d thought I was done with that after she betrayed me in Egypt, but…” she fell silent. Then she looked at Helena and smiled lopsidedly, raising her empty coffee mug in a mock toast. “Pete had it right – in your version of what happened in Egypt. I’m not rational when it comes to you.” She winced. “Her, I mean.”

Helena waved the slip-of-the-tongue away. “Neither of us is when it comes to the other, it would seem.” She smirked. “It’s hardly rational to endure seven decades of immobile imprisonment simply for a chance of encountering you again. And yet I would do it all over again if I was faced with the decision once more.”

“I appreciate your determination to heed Wolly’s advice, though,” Ophie said. “Thinking back-” she stopped herself, frowned and shook her head. “This is _so_ weird!” she burst out, narrowly avoiding hitting the bed post with her empty mug. “Remembering, I mean. I can go back to memories of, say, Moscow for example, and it’s just as easy to remember how you and Myka spent the night in that hotel as it is to remember how Helena and me did.” She closed her eyes briefly, then looked at Helena again. “What I wanted to say is that when I look at these memories of you and Myka… it never felt… weird. Like you knew me when I didn’t know you, or something. I mean we both do, have done, our fair share of assuming about the other, but not… not to the point where, in _my_ hindsight, it was obvious that you were looking at me, not at Myka. Or looking _for_ me, or whatever. You know what I mean?”

Helena slowly nodded. “That’s good to hear,” she said after a moment. “It was quite the balancing act sometimes.” She shifted to a more comfortable position on the bed, and finally took one of the pillows and stuffed it behind her shoulder blades. “Take Moscow,” she continued. “When the effects of the Plank began to dissipate, I was shuddering so hard that Myka asked if she could hug me.”

“Citing oxytocin,” Ophie nodded with a smirk. “I remember that, yeah. Which was inspired of her, and totally not a front to finally have an excuse to touch you.”

“Hah!” Helena gave a slightly subdued guffaw. “I had suspected something along those lines, but that was a situation in which I was not concerned in the slightest about her motives, and much more about the outcome.”

“You cried,” Ophie said, bafflement and concern echoing in her voice. 

“Because Myka speaking of oxytocin reminded me so much of you and our conversation about hormones that it cut me to the core,” Helena explained.

“Oh.” Wide-eyed, wild-eyed Ophie leaned forward and turned to face Helena more fully. “I… I didn’t know that. I thought it was just… release, relief, something like that.”

“That’s what Myka said then, and that’s what I let her believe, because what else could I have told her?” As if the memory of Moscow brought back the aftereffects of the Titanic’s Plank, Helena began to shiver. “I… Ophie, you…”

“Hey – come here.” Ophie pulled Helena into her arms. “This is just another relief/release moment for you, don’t you think? After all the waiting and not telling me things?”

“I suppose,” Helena murmured, burrowing still more deeply into Ophie’s embrace.

Ophie squeezed her shoulders. “It’s okay. We’ll figure this out, okay?”

“This is not just another puzzle to be solved,” Helena said, slightly muffled by the fabric of Ophie’s pyjama shirt. 

“I know,” the reply came instantly. “But this is also not insurmountable, you know. We _can_ figure this out. We can support each other, we can,” and here Ophie chuckled self-deprecatingly, “talk about our feelings, we can consult Doctor Burke – the important thing is that you love me and I love you, alright?”

 

“Would that be ‘Ophie loves Helena?’” Helena asked, leaning back and searching Ophie’s face. Asking this felt like probing a toothache with the tip of her tongue, both in that she dreaded the reply she’d get and in that she couldn’t stop herself regardless.

“And Georgie loves Myka,” Ophie confirmed with a chuckle. “And probably all other variants as well.”

“Goodness, what a tangle,” sighed Helena. “Let us hope little conflict will arise from it.”

“I doubt it,” Ophie said immediately. “If this had been about Helena and me, my Helena, I mean, I would _not_ have been confident, but you never plotted to destroy the world. You never gave me reason to doubt you, or your feelings for me.”

There was a pain in Ophie’s eyes as she said this that was truly and uniquely Ophie’s, and even though it had nothing to do with herself, Helena felt at the very least obliged to reply to it. “I’m so sorry,” she offered softly. 

Ophie broke eye contact, and their embrace, and Helena was even sorrier about that. “It’s alright,” Ophie said breezily. 

“No, it is not,” Helena insisted. This was also something she had been thinking about. “You have every right to be angry, to be bitter, about what your Helena did, about how she hurt you, about losing her. And you have every right to be sad, to grieve for her. I am lucky,” she said, and this time it was her who couldn’t meet Ophie’s eyes and had to look away. “I’m lucky that I have you – both Ophie and Myka. You don’t – you have just the one me. Don’t,” she said quickly when Ophie scoffed, “dismiss that. It’s part of the… emotional tapestry that we find ourselves in, and neither of us would do well to disregard it.”

“Do I detect Doctor Burke’s influence at work?” Ophie said, and Helena’s heart grew lighter. However small the teasing was in Ophie’s voice and Ophie’s eyes, it was there, and it gave Helena hope. 

“Probably,” Helena smirked. “I had every motivation for seeking professional help, after all. And once I had resigned myself to it, I learned quite a bit.” Her smirk deepened to a smile. “I’ve always been more interested in the inner workings of machinery, but the inner workings of people do hold appeal as well. And I can’t deny that the understanding that my sessions with Doctor Burke have woken has been of great help in my dealings with people.” She tilted her head, emboldened enough by Ophie’s corresponding smile to play a little coy. “Which is indispensable for a good agent, of course.”

“Of course.” Ophie’s voice was just as deadpan as Helena’s, and her eyes held the same sparkle. Then her expression grew more serious. “Georgie, when we do go forward from this – _how_ do we go forward? How do you want to do this?”

Helena inhaled sharply. “That’s something I’ve been thinking about, actually,” she said, stalling for time. “And I’ll gladly tell you my thoughts, with the added caveat that if you want to do things differently, that is perfectly alright.”

Ophie’s eyes regained a little of their spark. She also looked impressed, though. “Noted.”

Helena nodded and leaned her shoulder against the headboard. Then she frowned and picked up the pillow again, using it as padding. “I’m not getting any younger, you know,” she grouched at Ophie’s amused look. “Alright,” she continued, setting her chin. “As a result of my thought processes on the matter, I’ve resolved to proceed with caution,” she announced. Ophie laughed out loud, and Helena sniffed. “I fail to see what’s so funny.”

“Your delivery,” Ophie replied, fighting to regain a more sombre mien. “Do continue to give me the results of your thought processes, please.”

Helena rolled her eyes, but couldn’t help a chuckle. “Oh, alright. You see, my reasoning is that while Myka and I have more than a years’ worth of a relationship to build on, you and I do not. And while, yes, I said that you were one person, it’s also true that you are one person with two distinct sets of memories – very distinct when it comes to the two of us. So I won’t presume to just pick up our relationship where we left it; that simply wouldn’t be right.”

“I guess I’m just glad that you said ‘right’ and not ‘proper,’” Ophie murmured, then raised her hand pleadingly. “Sorry, just a joke.” A quick smile flitted across her features. “I’m totally not used to you reasoning out emotions just like that, and I guess that proves your point.” She moved away from the headboard until she had space enough to cross her legs in front of her and look at Helena head-on. “I want to get this right,” she said, seriousness riding on every word. “I messed it up – this, us. With Helena, I mean. Okay, sure, she did her fair share of messed-up things; it’s not all my fault what happened, I get that. I get that. It’s just…” She broke off, looking for the right words to continue. “I would really, really like to get it right this time. And part of me knows that we’ve already started, and that it’s working out and going strong, And I’m pretty sure that as time goes by, I’ll trust that. But right now, I am very, very… nervous. Of messing up again.”

“Because last time you messed up, it almost resulted in a civilization-ending ice age,” Helena voiced her suspicion.

Ophie laughed bitterly and looked down. “That’s one way of putting it, yeah.”

Helena moved away from the headboard now, too, kneeling in front of Ophie and taking both her hands into her own. “Ophie-”

“Please,” Ophie interrupted her, “can we return to Myka? I’m okay with referring to Myka’s timeline and Ophie’s timeline, but… I… I just like the name Myka better than Ophie, you know? The only one to call me Ophie, apart from you, was Tracy, after all. And I think it’ll help me see myself as one person if I go by one name,” she added wryly.

“Oh! Of course.” Helena squeezed Myka’s hands. “I understand. “ She tilted her head. “Do you want to continue calling me Georgie? Would calling me Helena be too-” she cast around for the right word.

“-weird?” Myka provided. “I’m not sure. Can we wait and see?”

“Absolutely.” 

“What was it you wanted to say, though?” Myka smiled a wan little smile. “Sorry for interrupting you.” 

“Don’t worry,” Helena gave back. “I simply wanted to let you know that you’re stuck with me. We’re both resolved to proceed – however much caution we feel we need for it is fine by me, because it’s the proceeding that matters, Myka. And that we both want this. Everything else we can and will negotiate as it happens, but this-” and she squeezed Myka’s hands again, “this is the crucial factor, and we’re agreed on that.” 

Myka looked down at their joined hands and smiled. “I remember giving Helena relationship pep-talks. She never felt as though she deserved to be that happy.” Her eyes came up, and Helena was startled to see that though Myka was still smiling, they were brimming. “To hear you give that kind of pep-talk to me is…” she shook her head, and one tear spilled over. “I mean,” she laughed once and dashed one hand across her eyes, then looked heavenwards, “I totally deserve to be this happy, that’s not the problem here.” Her eyes met Helena’s again. “It’s rather that I…”

“Find it difficult to trust fate?”

“Wouldn’t you, after what it made me go through?” Myka retorted.

“Absolutely.” Helena detached one hand and brought it up to Myka’s cheek. “I almost lost you too, remember?” She leaned forward, and Myka did the same, until their foreheads touched and their breaths mingled. “In this life we’re leading, we can’t know how much time we have together,” Helena whispered, “but we can make the best of every single day.” Her hand cupped Myka’s jaw more firmly. “And we can make damned sure that if Death comes for one or both of us, he will slink away not just empty-handedly, but beaten back so hard that he’ll think twice about ever coming for us again.”

“I love it when your voice gets all dangerous like that,” Myka whispered and closed the gap between their lips. “Now tell me about our first kiss.”


	12. Chapter 12

As first kisses go, I guess we had three, but I think I know which one you refer to. Ouch! Yes, alright, I deserved that one. Granted. Now will you let me speak?

Myka had just successfully retrieved Cinderella’s Glass Knife with Pete, and I had just sent Rebecca St. Clair to her death. Well, it is what I did, there is no reason to ‘make it sound dramatic’ when dramatic is what it was, you know. At any rate, Myka and I both knew Myka had almost not come back out of the time machine, and I guess we were both re-evaluating a few things as a result.

It was still quite warm outside when Myka joined me on the roof of the Bed and Breakfast. She complained that I’d stolen her spot, but then she’d done that every time she found me here. And like every time she found me here, she joined me. And like every time she joined me, I handed her a blanket, just in case. And like every time I’d handed her a blanket, she used it as a pillow. 

We stared up at the stars for a while, silent together. Then she said, “Claudia told me what you did today.”

“Which bit?” I asked back, a bit apprehensively. To be fair, I’d done quite a few bits today.

“The bit where you held my hand through most of the time I was in the time machine.”

Oh. “Oh.”

“M-hm.”

Had I imagined it, or had there been a certain… undertone in Myka’s voice? I cleared my throat. “Would you believe me when I said that I needed to monitor your heart rate?”

“No.” This time, the undertone was amusement, I was certain of it.

“That I _wanted_ to monitor your heart rate?”

“No.” This time, there was an actual chuckle. It didn’t make me feel any less like a deer in the headlights, I believe the expression goes.

I swallowed. “So do you have a theory then as to why I did?” Two could play that game, after all. 

And then Myka turned, and subjected me to a gaze that was brighter than any headlights could ever be. “I do,” she breathed, leaned forwards agonizingly slowly, and kissed me. 

Yes, agonizingly. Oh don’t give me this nonsense about consent, darling, that is a front you should be ashamed of. If it had been about consent, you would have _asked_. You are good about asking at any other time, after all. 

If you don’t stop making fun of me, I won’t tell you something I haven’t told you in all this time.

See that you do.

Our kiss was everything I’d hope it would be, and certainly much, much more than what I’d bargained for when I went into the Bronze seventy years ago. When Myka pulled away from me, my heart was beating so fast it was painful. My throat was so full I could hardly breathe, and I remember telling myself, quite sternly, that kissing you was too wonderful to be followed by a panic attack. 

Awesome? Darling, I will never understand how you Americans choose to apply adjectives. You take the… the _majesty_ that is the descriptor ‘awesome’ and apply it to anything under the sun, from ice cream to the latest blockbuster movie to, apparently, kissing. You look at things inscrutable, uncanny or bizarre, and call them ‘weird.’ 

I would agree that it was awesome – in the truest sense of the word. I was awed by where we had arrived, you and I, awed by how we both had taken ahold of our lives, our fates, and twisted and shaped them to fit our idea of how we wanted them to be. Awed by the notion that you wanted your life to include me as someone to kiss. For the first time, the fact that the stars we had only a moment ago been looking up to were ever so slightly different from when I’d looked at them as a child, for the first time that fact was awe-inspiring rather than petrifying. I had come through all this time, into my third century, to be here with you on this roof, kissing.

Stop singing. Stop. Singing! You are ruining – _ruining_ this. Heavens help me, Myka O-

Oh. Mh.

No, this kiss was not ‘nice.’ And don’t even try ‘awesome.’ Delectable, it certainly was. Promising, too. But if I cannot find a better adjective to describe a kiss from you than ‘nice,’ you can put me to bed with a shovel. 

Yes, I really did almost have a panic attack after that first kiss. 

I had tried to heed Wolly’s warning. I had tried to see you for who you were, not as a carbon copy of Ophie. I had tried very, very hard not to assume, project, fantasize, idolize. 

But hearts and hopes are capricious things. It’s very hard to rein them in. And here we were, and my wildest hope, a hope that had accompanied me through seventy years of immobility, a hope that had bidden me turn my back on family I did and did not know at the same time, to find someone that I did not and _did_ know at the same time – that hope was finally becoming reality. Not just had you turned out to be every bit as awe-inspiring as Ophie had been, not only had you reached out the hand of friendship to me, but here you were, actively kissing me. Is it any wonder that I had difficulties breathing? That my heart was thundering in my ears like a herd of horses the size of half of Mongolia? 

I was struck by lightning in that moment, electrified, ready to jump out of my skin. I will never again spew disdain at a writer for using the expression ‘to die of bliss.’ I’ll vocalize mild annoyance, possibly, if that writer fails to set the stakes half as high as I did when I stepped into the Bronze in 1941, hope in my heart and spring in my step. Here you were, kissing me. Here we were, kissing each other. Here we were, under slightly different stars, together. 

As first kisses go, it was, indeed, quite awesome. 

-_-_-

Myka swallowed harshly. “Okay,” she said. “Okay, I… I get it now.” Her gaze was as tender as Helena had ever seen it. “Wow,” she breathed. “Seriously, you… wow.”

“I’m glad I was able to convey my awe,” Helena replied, slightly mollified and nevertheless unable to stop herself from putting the merest hint of derision in the last word. 

“Is that why you cried, later, after we-”

“ _Yes_.”

“Oh.”

“Indeed.”

Myka let out a long, low breath. Then she laughed weakly. “No pressure, I guess. I mean, you just tell me you basically went through all of that – the Bronze, decades of being bronzed, the aftereffects, all of that – just to…” She waved her hands, looking for words. Helena didn’t know if Myka truly didn’t have the vocabulary to express what she thought, or if the words were too frightening to say aloud.

“-be with you?” she finished Myka’s sentence when it became clear that Myka wouldn’t.

“God!” Myka buried her head in the sheets with a groan. “Jeez, I really can’t believe you sometimes.”

“If I were my grandmother, I’d chastise you for taking the Lord’s name in vain twice in one breath, darling.”

“Helena, your grandmother was born in the eighteenth frickin’ century!” Myka’s laughter was a little wild. 

“Barely,” Helena insisted, for the look of things. Then she relented. “It does seem a fool’s errand when you think about it like that. I might just be a fool for you, I suppose. Nevertheless, though, you do remember everything that came after this kiss, yes? The weeks and months, our one-year anniversary, our-”

“Relationship bliss?” Myka interrupted, eyebrow raised. 

“Hardly,” Helena chuckled. “Especially not at the beginning. Egypt happened twenty days after that kiss, after all, and threw me for the biggest loop of my life.”

This made Myka sober up. “Jeez, yeah,” she said with a flush of exhalation. “I mean, thinking about that in context…” she embraced Helena tightly. Still pressed against her, she shook her head. “I guess it’s good that I didn’t know just how much was riding on this for you. It just might have sent me running right the hell in the other direction, you know.”

Helena nodded. “Oh, I’m well aware. I suppose that, too, is what Wolly meant, even if he didn’t state it outright.”

“Quite insightful of him,” Myka said. “Tell me, did you ever… I mean, your daughter had kids, right? That means… doesn’t that mean you still have family over in England?”

“Oh! I do indeed,” Helena smiled. 

“That’s right,” Myka exclaimed as she remembered. “You visited them for Christmas right after Pete and I swapped bodies at my high school reunion.”

“Yes, I did,” Helena nodded with a sigh. “Planned to, anyway. Not my best idea, as it turned out.” She shuffled slightly forward on the bed, brought her knees up to her chin, and hugged them, resting her head on top of them. She stared blankly at the opposite wall. “It was too soon, plain and simple. I hadn’t found my feet yet, not to the point where I had a watertight story to tell them, not to the point where I even knew what I wanted from that visit.”

“That’s why you were back again so quickly,” Myka said, putting a hand on Helena’s shoulder. 

Helena sighed again and lowered her head to its side until her cheek grazed Myka’s knuckles. “I didn’t even leave London,” she exhaled. “I started to realize that it was an ill-fated plan even still on the flight to Heathrow. Got off the plane and immediately booked a ticket back. Wrote an email to my great-great-granddaughter who thinks I’m her thrice-removed second cousin, in order to explain my absence. I didn’t deserve the understanding Danny afforded me, nor the many online conversations that followed, nor the affection that evolved between us.” Helena huffed a laugh. “I’d never have thought that I’d be getting Christmas cards, birthday updates, pictures from people who have my Christina’s hair, or our brown eyes, or my cheekbones.” This time it was her laughter that sounded a little wild. “I am Facebook friends with grandchildren of the boy I held when he was born, on St. Martin’s Day in 1940.”

“Hey.” Myka got up to her knees and slung her arms around Helena. “At least you have that, you know? You’re not alone out there.” She buried her face in Helena’s hair. “It broke my heart when my Helena said that she had no tether to this world other than the Warehouse. I’m so, so glad that it’s different for you.”

Helena took a deep breath, and then leaned back to look at Myka. “Same for you,” she said with a small smile. “I mean we actually, both of us, now have a life outside of Warehouse duty,” she continued, her smile deepening. “Taking that vacation to Hawaii was invigorating. And Christmas with your family was actually an enjoyable experience, despite your misgivings beforehand,” she added.

“I’m pretty sure that was mainly because we were at Tracy and Kevin’s place, and my father had to be the cordial guest instead of the household tyrant. And I’m sure Mom was waiting any moment for Tracy to announce that she’s pregnant, so she wasn’t paying much attention to us.”

“They all accepted that we were an ‘us,’ though,” Helena reminded her. “That’s no small matter.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Myka sighed. “I had anticipated more of a fight on that front.” 

“I know,” Helena smiled and leaned in to kiss her. 

“I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop,” Myka said with a frown. “I mean, Pete’s been whammied twice on Christmas; maybe there _was_ an arte-” 

Helena was quick to head this one off. “We checked, Myka. Twice. No artefact was involved in us having a happy Christmas with your family.” She gave Myka another kiss. “As a matter of fact, I received a Facebook friend request from your mother not long after.”

Myka leaned back, eyes wide. “You what?”

“As you would know if you would actually use _your_ Facebook account,” Helena said primly, “I am now Facebook friends with your mother, and a Facebook fan of your parents’ bookstore.” She shrugged. “Jeannie doesn’t post much and neither do I, but it is a way of keeping in contact, and she has mentioned that she wished you’d do more of that.”

Myka groaned pitifully. “Of course she has.” Then she stopped and laughed incredulously. “This is all so baffling to think of through Ophie’s eyes, you know. Basically her only memory of you anywhere near her parents is when Mrs. F brought that Pokéball into their bookshop to persuade her to help Pete and Steve find the Lost Folio. And her Christmas consisted mainly of wishing you weren’t a hologram.”

“I’m sorry, darling,” Helena offered. 

“Yeah.” Myka hung her head. Then she leaned into Helena. “Hey, can we agree on you not apologizing for these things?”

“But I’m not!” Helena protested. “I merely want you to know that I commiserate. I know that I’m not responsible for that. But I can’t help how my heart aches for her when I compare what she and her Helena had to what we have.” She pressed a kiss on Myka’s temple. “That’s all.”

Myka sniffed a little, then leaned even closer and slung her arms around Helena’s midriff. “I like Myka’s memories better than Ophie’s,” she said quietly. “My heart aches too, you know. And I know it sounds cheesy as hell, but knowing what she went through makes me appreciate what we have, so much more.” She hugged Helena tightly to her. “I never wanna lose that,” she whispered.

“Well, we did just save the world together,” Helena murmured back. “I’m sure we’re due another vacation, and after that, we’ll hound Artie and Irene some more about hiring more agents. I do want our vacations to become a regular thing, you know. I want to hunt that elusive spectre they call a ‘work-life balance.’” _Plus_ , she added in her mind, _Pete is going to want to take time off when his and Kelly’s child is born; I’m certain of it_.

“Me too,” Myka said fervently, and then laughed again. “Man, I wonder if my mother’s ears are ringing,” she added. “She’s always harping on about me working less. This would be right up her alley, me going for a better work-life balance.”

“All a question of finding the right incentive,” Helena purred, pressing a slightly more passionate kiss on Myka’s neck. “Next I’ll get you to eat more by putting cookies on my stomach, and she’ll love me forever.”


	13. Chapter 13

Quite a while later, and satiated in many ways, Myka rested her head on Helena’s stomach and grinned. “This never stops being amazing, you know,” she said in a stage-whisper.

“Why thank you,” Helena replied dryly.

“Honestly, though, I should have known,” Myka continued, drawing idle designs around Helena’s navel. “I mean, after what you told me about the Pharaoh’s Beard, I was pretty sure of how adventurous you were.” She looked up and gave Helena a nose-crinkled, dimpled, mischievous smile. “And adventurous usually makes for a fantastic lover.”

Helena raised first her head, to look down at Myka, then her eyebrow, for effect. “Thank you, again, my darling.” 

They both smirked at each other, then Myka broke into a full belly laugh. “God, I love oxytocin.” She disentangled herself and came up to lie in Helena’s arms. “Tell me that story now, please. I want to appreciate it again.”

-_-_-

It was late morning. Quite late. Especially in terms of Agent Myka Bering, who rarely slept past eight. Therefore, especially after what I’d overheard the night before, I was concerned. So I went and knocked on Myka’s door. “Are you alright?” I asked after Myka had invited me in. The room was quite murky – the curtains were still shut. That fact alone, I decided, warranted my concern. Drawn curtains at 11 in the morning were not her style at all.

Myka’s first answer was a long-drawn out sigh, further compounding my worry. “I guess,” she said then, rubbing her forehead. From her spot on the bed, she gestured towards the two-seater sofa under her window, and I sat down.

“That sounds about as good as I’d expected after last night’s interaction,” I replied, leaning forward on my elbows. “I take it that the artefact in question _was_ a body swap artefact?”

Myka made a face. “Yeah. Good call on Stevenson,” she added, “it was one of his. Or two, rather.” She winced, poured herself a glass of water from an already half-empty jug, and emptied it in one draught.

My eyebrows rose at the same rate as the bottom of her glass. “Hangover?” I ventured when she had finished. 

She mutely nodded and replaced the empty glass on its tray. “Thanks for helping with Kelly, by the way,” she said, and I returned her nod. 

“Anytime,” I added.

“How did you know it would be a Stevenson artefact?”

“Wolcott,” I smiled. “Oh, he would love to hear that his obsession with the story of Doctor Jekyll and Mister Hide was of some use at last. He would regale me for _hours_ with details, rumours and the latest interpretations.”

Myka smiled as well, if more wanly. “Well, he sure wasn’t the only one,” she said. “There are no less than eight movies, a couple TV shows, songs, theatre plays obviously-”

“Don’t remind me,” I said, rolling her eyes. “Wolcott would see every single new run. Multiple times.”

“And, last but not least, a Jekyll-and-Hyde-themed restaurant that’s apparently the hottest new thing in New York these days,” Myka concluded her list. “So your Mister Wolcott was in good company.”

“He’d be delighted,” I murmured. Sliding forward in my seat, I eyed Myka intently. She was rubbing her forehead again. “Beyond your hangover, are you truly alright? Suddenly finding yourself inhabiting a body of a different sex can be… disorienting; at least I found it so.”

“ _You_ - _?_ ” she goggled at me.

“My time machine,” I told her. “It was my first suspicion when I heard you talking on your phone in the hallway.”

“Ohhh,” Myka nodded her understanding. “Yeah, well,” she laughed, rolling her eyes, “that would have been so much less dangerous than what those bookends turned out to be.” My eyebrow shot up. Less dangerous? “Anyway,” Myka went on, “after the initial shock had worn off, the worst bit was where I’d drunk three vodka tonics when I was still in my body, and then when Pete…” she stopped, biting her lip. 

“He doesn’t handle alcohol well?” I posited. At that time, I had never seen any alcohol being consumed at the Bed and Breakfast, but I hadn’t known the reason – until Myka’s next words. 

“He doesn’t drink at all,” Myka replied, her eyes shifting to the side. “So, yeah, he had a bit of a hard time handling it, you could say that.” Her eyes dropped to her bed sheets. “It only got creepy when the other two guys showed up.” She grimaced, obviously remembering something extremely unsavoury, then took a deep breath and reached for the water jug again. “But here we are, no harm done,” she concluded, pouring herself another glass. 

“Another close call, I take it,” I said, my eyebrow climbing again. 

“Helena, I-” Myka broke off, closing her eyes and running one hand over her face. “I’d really rather not talk about it, okay?”

“Of course,” I replied easily. Ever so considerate if I say so myself, I waited until she was done drinking before I asked, “Would you rather I entertain you with my experience of finding myself in a male body?” I smirked ever so slightly at the memory.

Myka’s hand, almost losing hold of the emptied glass, dropped into her lap, as did her jaw. “ _You_ …” She swallowed. “Um. Yeah,” she said then, with a very transparent act of nonchalance, “yeah, that sounds kinda, um, interesting.”

I laughed. “Kinda,” I chuckled, and laughed again when Myka winced at the Americanism coming from my mouth. 

“ _Please_ don’t do that,” Myka said imploringly. “I can’t handle a hangover _and_ that.”

“Righty-ho then,” I saluted. I settled a bit more comfortably on the two-seater, crossing my legs and stretching them out in front of me. “Despite Warehouse 2 being lost, Warehouse 12 did actually house quite a few Egyptian artefacts,” I recounted.

“Courtesy of Howard Carter, I presume,” Myka offered. 

I hated to correct her, but, “Napoleon Bonaparte, actually,” I had to tell her.

Myka hung her head and groaned. “Of course – his Egyptian Campaign. I’m sorry, please go on.”

I smiled and waved her concern away. “You might have heard at some point that Egyptologists disagreed for decades, centuries by now, about the actual sex of Pharaoh Neferneferuaten. They could not even agree if Neferneferuaten was one person, or two.”

Myka squinted. “No…” she said slowly, “can’t say that I’ve come across that.”

I gave a mock little gasp of surprise. It made Myka chuckle, which had been the point. “At any rate,” I continued, “what those Egyptologists did not know was that Pharaoh Neferneferuaten was in fact one person – one female person. But she had an artefact that was able to make her appear male. Care to hazard a guess?”

Myka pursed her lips. “Well, after being completely wrong about Howard Carter…” Then her chin came up defiantly. “I’d say the… whatchamacallit,” she gestured toward said chin. “That, uh… fake beard thing that the pharaohs wore.”

“Full marks,” I beamed. “Neferneferuaten’s Royal Beard. It doesn’t even need to be worn on the chin after the initial activation,” I added with a reminiscent smile, “which is certainly beneficial. You simply put it on, change appearance, and keep it about your person. Around your neck, I found, was completely sufficient.” 

“Wait, so, what, you just stumbled across that on the shelves one day and decided to try it out?” Myka sounded incredulous.

“Wouldn’t you have?” I asked back. 

Myka hesitated a moment before answering. “Um, no?” she replied at last. “Artefacts are… you shouldn’t just trigger them because you’re curious,” she said conscientiously. “I’m sure that that Royal Beard had a downside.”

I rolled her eyes heavenward. “If you count developing a dislike of cats a downside,” I said and quirked my lips. “I certainly have never seen it as that.” 

Myka’s eyes flickered towards the ferret cage near the sofa on which I sat. “Does that dislike extend to other small, furry creatures?”

“Fortunately not,” I said reassuringly. “Your little Pete is quite intriguing, as a matter of fact.” The ferret seemed to share the sentiment, as he was, at this moment, standing upright against the cage wires, regarding me intently with his beady eyes. “So you’ve never wondered how having a male body would feel?” I asked, my gaze returning to her. 

“Oh, sure,” Myka replied with a wave of her hand, “I mean, doesn’t everyone? But not to the point where I’d…” she shook her head firmly, even disapprovingly, “just pick up an artefact to find out.”

“Well, I found I couldn’t resist even had I wanted to,” I said, eyes cast down, small smile playing around my mouth. “It was fascinating,” I continued, smile growing. “I went to the bathroom straight away, of course – I’d taken the artefact home,” I added, “and had waited until everyone was asleep.”

“The first thing you did in a male body was to go pee?!” Myka asked, fighting laughter.

“ _No_ ,” I replied, feeling a little indignant. “But the bathroom had the largest mirror outside of Christina’s and my shared dressing room, and I did not want to wake her – I doubt she would have understood.”

“Ohhh…” Myka was truly chuckling now. “Um, I think you should know that when an American hears ‘go to the bathroom,’ they’ll think you mean… you know. Taking a leak.”

“Oh.” 

“Yeah.” With one last snort of laughter, Myka leaned forward, eyes twinkling. “So you went to where you could look at yourself, huh?”

“Of course I did!” I gave back, “Who wouldn’t? And I was not disappointed by what I saw, let me tell you,” I added. 

“No false modesty, I see,” Myka murmured. 

“I have none of that in a female body,” I sniffed, “I daresay swapping equipment to a meat and two veg would do the opposite of changing that.”

Myka whooped a laugh and immediately clapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh my god, Helena!”

“What? Should I cover poor little Pete’s ears?” Everything, I remembered; I would do _everything_ to make Myka laugh, even if it meant implying that ferrets could or would be scandalized.

Myka was still covering her laughter, making little encouraging gestures towards me with her free hand. I decided to interpret them to mean ‘go on with the story,’ not ‘go on and cover this ferret’s ears.’ Did ferrets even have ears?

“In any case, I did… make certain the equipment worked,” I continued, leaving Myka to decide if by that I meant ‘taking a leak’ or something quite different. “And I took the Royal Beard off afterwards and assumed my female form again,” I said with a bit of decorum, even going so far as to fiddle a little with the sofa’s upholstering. 

“And I just bet you didn’t take it back to the Warehouse,” Myka replied. 

I scoffed. “Of course I did! Christina was three at the time, and there wasn’t a locked door in the house safe from her exploits.” I shuddered, exaggerating for comic effect. “I didn’t want to come home to a sudden and unexpected son.”

“With a dislike for cats,” Myka added, nodding in mock seriousness.

“Exactly,” I agreed. “So, yes, I did take it back to the Warehouse, thank you very much. I just didn’t leave it there.”

“You smuggled it out _again?_ ” Myka sounded truly alarmed now.

I nodded. “About half a dozen times,” I said nonchalantly, “possibly eight? I wanted to experience it fully, after all.” I smiled with happy reminiscence. “One time, I borrowed one of Charles’ finest suits and simply walked along Pall Mall,” I recounted. “Just to see how people would react to me when I seemed male.” I grinned. “I had done that before, gone out in male disguise. But that had been all that’s ever been – a disguise, always bearing the danger of being exposed. With the artefact, detection was well-nigh impossible, allowing me to be-”

“Even more brash?” Myka guessed.

“Oh, you have no idea,” I laughed. “Tell a good enough story, in a male, white, handsome young body, and people will let you do almost anything.” My laugh faded to another reminiscent smirk. “I had high tea at the Savoy and put it on the Earl of Cromer’s account – served the old tart right for restricting women’s rights. I gave a more or less improvised speech in the Athenaeum about how to sexually please women and the benefits of such acts, for which I was eventually chased off the premises with a promise of tarring and feathering, should I ever return. I tried once more to go after Oscar, seeing my chances redoubled in a male body, but he was too besotted with his Bosie to give me the time of day. I found other, more willing lovers, therefore – of both sexes, of course,” I concluded my list demurely. 

“You what.”

I scoffed again, shaking my head in amusement. “Of course I did! Surely no scientific exploration of a sex change would be complete without testing all manners of sensory input, up to and including that of an intimate nature.”

Myka took a deep breath, and even in the dim light that fell through her curtains, I could see the blush in her cheeks. “Oh-kay,” was all Myka replied.

“Okay?” I verified that I had heard correctly. 

“Yeah. I mean, I get that you’re more… curious about that, apparently, more… adventurous.” Myka shrugged with a weak grin. “Enough to use an artefact multiple times, in fact, for testing… intimate sensory input.” 

“Myka, I…” I suddenly did not know what to say. My tale had been meant to amuse her; if anything, to possibly slightly scandalize – I had not foreseen a negative reaction. Surely-

“Gotcha,” Myka whispered, then broke out in a laugh at my stunned expression. “Oh my gosh, Helena, it’s fine. It’s fine! I’m just teasing you.” With a very studied serious expression, Myka added, “except for the fact that you did smuggle an artefact out of the Warehouse several times for personal use.” And just as fast, the grin was back. “But you should have seen your face!”

“Now that is simply unfair,” I said a tad sourly. “How am I to know what people of this age think appropriate?”

“Oh, you’re doing fine so far,” Myka reassured her. “And yeah, no, I would totally have been just as curious if it had been just any random male body. But it was Pete’s, you know?” She shuddered slightly at the memory. “I mean, you wouldn’t have been as adventurous in, oh, I don’t know, your brother’s body, right?”

“Absolutely not!” Now I shuddered, too. “Alright, alright,” I added, “I concede the point.” 

“Thank you,” Myka accepted graciously. Then, again, like summer lightning, her smile was back, mischievous and light-hearted. “And thanks for the distraction,” she added. “Exactly what I needed. Now when I can’t sleep, I’ll think of you in a Victorian suit, strutting your outrageous self down Pall Mall.”

“Surely a woman can’t ask more than that,” I admitted decorously.


	14. Chapter 14

“Oh, come on, you were _so_ flirting back then,” Myka snorted, back in the present. “I find it very hard to believe that you didn’t know how to handle that. I mean the way you go on when we’re out on retrievals – you’re a natural!”

Their shared nakedness forgotten for a moment, Helena stiffened and raised her head to shoot Myka a frowning look. “Those were meaningless interactions for the most part, Myka – _you_ were anything but. I was terrified of getting anything wrong.” Helena looked down at the woman she loved, breath slightly hitching at the sight of Myka Bering, gloriously naked, resting contentedly in her arms. “As I am once more, with this most recent development.”

Myka smiled up at Helena. “I think we’re okay,” she said. “While I can’t deny that the ‘Ophie’ part of me was slightly nervous about what we just did, that’s just what it was – one part of me, and only slightly nervous, not jumpy or anything worse. And while all of me was very appreciative of the way you asked for my consent every time you did something, for most of what you did I remember giving consent at least once already.” She very carefully pressed a very gentle kiss on a very ticklish part of Helena’s neck. “That’s a good sign, wouldn’t you say?”

Tense for an entirely different reason, Helena managed to hum her agreement. “Mh-hm.”

This time Myka’s chuckle was an octave lower than the last, and sent shivers all the way down Helena’s spine. “I’m glad you agree,” she murmured. 

Her tone of voice made Helena struggle to stay on topic. “Seriously, though,” she frowned, “are you… is this-”

Myka raised her head and propped it up on one arm. Her gaze was firm and reassuring. “I am,” she said unequivocally. “I have no trouble whatsoever remembering everything about our relationships, babe, both the one Ophie had with her Helena, and the one we’re having.” She dropped her voice to another stage whisper. “Which I like a lot better, by the way.” Her whole face lit up when she grinned down at Helena. Seeing Helena’s still unconvinced expression, Myka sobered up a little. “Right now, I have no trouble at all telling the two apart. You know, how Ophie felt for her Helena, and how I feel for you.” She shrugged. “And if that ever happens – mixing the two up, I mean… we’ll just… work it out. Just like we’ve worked out anything else so far.” She leaned closer, taking Helena’s breath away yet again with the way her mess of curls tumbled forward. “Helena, this is far too important, and far too amazing.” Arms wound around Helena and held her tightly. “This is what I want,” Myka whispered in her ear, “absolutely and happily want, enough to convince even myself that it’s a good idea. I did that before, you know, and I’ll do it again, as often as it takes.” 

“You convinced yourself?”

Myka’s voiceless laugh tickled Helena’s ear. “Yup. In a hotel room in Moscow.”

-_-_- (Myka’s POV)

When Artie told me to take care of you, I was still on the fence about what to think about you. I mean, yes, you’d saved Claudia’s life in Tamalpais, and mine too. But then you just _happened_ to appear in Moscow, just _happened_ to run into us, just _happened_ to be able to find Artie? A few coincidences too many. On the other hand, you had just saved Artie’s life. Besides, you looked so pitiful clinging to the Plank that I decided that even if your intentions were bad, there wasn’t much that you could do to me in that state. 

Boy, was I wrong. 

What did you ever do?! You stole my heart! I’d say that’s a pretty damn serious felony!

Back to the story, though; when we arrived at the hotel, I wasn’t sure what to do best. I don’t think I suggested taking a bath, though, that was Ophie, right? Yeah, thought so. Anyway, I remember us lying down on the bed, fully clothed, you hanging onto that bit of wood like a lifeline, and I wondered if offering to hug you was a good idea. 

I didn’t think of myself as a snuggler; at least not back then. We had never been very… um, physically affectionate, in my family. I didn’t really have the kind of high school friends who hugged instead of saying ‘hi,’ either. So to me, embracing someone was absolutely and totally a funeral-or-relationship thing. 

Don’t laugh! It was. The only times I had ever hugged someone who wasn’t my boyfriend or girlfriend at the time had been my uncle at my grandpa’s funeral. And that had only been because my parents had told Tracy and me that we were supposed to. 

And there you were, still shivering, a seriously sad sight. And I had no idea, none at all, how you would react, what you would think of me if I offered a hug. That’s why I wrapped it in talk about oxytocin, you know? So that we both could write it off if we felt we had to. 

But we didn’t. I felt so… when I felt you relax in my arms – and it took so long! It seemed like forever until I could feel your shoulders lose even a little bit of their tension. And oh boy, did I recognize the feeling that washed over me then. 

Tenderness, babe. I mean, I had felt attracted to you before that, and I’d tried my best to ignore it, but holding you and realizing that at least at some level, you trusted me enough to relax? Powerful stuff. Really powerful stuff. 

But yeah, the way my mind works I couldn’t forget about the misgivings I had, about your weir- alright, _uncanny_ knowledge. So there I was, holding you with tenderness in my heart and doubts in my mind. 

At the beginning of the Tamalpais retrieval we’d spoken about how you weren’t sure if returning to duty was a good idea, about how you wanted to see if there maybe were other things you wanted to do with your life. It made me feel like we had connected, you and me. Like there was a beginning of… I don’t know, _something_. And then I found you when you had that panic attack in the parking lot, and that feeling just grew. You’d been so… don’t laugh, okay? You’d been so dashing when you saved my life with your grappler gun. So self-confident when the three of us had been working to solve the puzzle, and so focused and calm as you worked to save Claudia’s life. And yet there you were, hunkering behind a Honda, a shivering mess on the verge of barfing. I was so glad I was at least able to help you breathe, but all I wanted to do was just to hug you and tell you that things would be okay. And then, after we were back at Leena’s, you all but disappeared into your room for the next week. I was confused, you know? Didn’t help when Leena said you were looking into what kind of university degrees were available ‘in this day and age.’ 

I mean part of me was cheering you on, your discovery of what women can do these days and so on. But I… I didn’t want to see you go. And then when I did see you come out of your room, I mean me-me, not Pete-me, you go and tell me about using an artefact to get yourself a male body. I was almost sure that you were flirting with me, or at the very least trying to test the waters to see if I was even open to being flirted with, this being the Midwest and everything. And oh boy, did I have misgivings about that. Being flirted with, I mean. Not because of the whole ‘I’m bisexual’ thing, but…

You know about Sam. And you know that I’m a rational person. And while the Warehouse Manual doesn’t have anything about fraternization and believe me I’ve checked, I wasn’t sure if getting involved with a fellow agent again was a good idea. I’d gone through the heartache of losing my partner – and Sam wasn’t just my work partner, he was my life partner. I loved him. And I lost him, and I… for the longest time I thought it was my fault that he got shot. And I asked myself if it was a good idea to put myself in a position where something like that could happen again. If I should let myself become that close to a co-worker again. On the other hand, what were the chances of me finding someone outside of the Warehouse, like Pete had found Kelly? And remember when she said that his life was too weird and that she didn’t want that? So all of that was mixed up in me wondering if you were even flirting with me, you see? 

And then we were in Moscow, and I was holding you, and I realized that it was too late to wonder about anything. I realized that I had fallen for you anyway, despite any misgivings. And I was reasonably certain that you were at the very least interested in me, too. I mean you’d come to Dickinson’s funeral, and you really didn’t have a good reason to give me when I asked you why you were there. But you _were_ there, you had flown across half the country to be there, and you sought me out when I walked away from everybody else, and you comforted me. That’s not something you do for just any co-worker. That’s something you do when you care, deeply. 

Still, I could have stopped myself then. I’ve done that before, too. It hurts like hell, but it’s possible. I had no idea if this was a good idea. And I had more than enough time, while I was holding you, to talk myself out of it. And then I thought, you know what – fuck that. This is HG Wells, my favourite author. But not just that. This is Helena, brilliant mind, massive ego which is half front, half coping strategy, and still fully justified; she’s beautiful, she’s well-read, she’s as much of a science fiction nerd as I am, as much a lover of books as I am, and she’s been flirting with me – why on Earth would I let a chance like that slip through my fingers?

So I kept my arms around you, and tried my best to help you through the aftermath of being whammied, and I didn’t say anything or do anything because you still felt as though you were drowning and it _so_ wasn’t the moment, but… yeah, that was it. That was when I talked myself into an idea, not out of it. I know, right? So Pete is both right and wrong when he says I’m not rational when it comes to you. I mean, that was a lot of rational thinking that went into that decision. It doesn’t matter that it was after the fact. And it doesn’t matter that the decision itself might have been irrational. It was the right decision, after all. 

So that night when we were back at Leena’s and you went up to the roof, I came after you with a purpose, and I’ve never looked back. 

Yes, until now, you’re right. 

I still don’t regret a single thing. 

Ophie had so many regrets, and in a way her memories are reaffirming my choice, you know. I’m not saying that if Ophie had behaved differently, she and her Helena hadn’t ended up where they ended up. Not saying that at all – I know that you and her Helena are different to begin with, plus the Butterfly effect et cetera et cetera. Pointless to argue that if _this_ had happened _that_ way, _that_ would have not happened at all, or turned out better, or worse, or whatever. If anything, letting go of Sam’s death has taught me that. 

I understand why Ophie thought that way, though. She tore herself to pieces about it, honestly. About everything she said to her Helena, everything she didn’t say, everything she did or didn’t do. Even when she was with you, you know. She was so afraid of saying or doing the wrong thing, she was almost paralyzed. And I mean really, who can blame her? If half of what happened to her had happened to me, I’m sure I’d be down that track too. It’s easy for me to say ‘pointless to argue’ when I’ve never had to experience you betraying me, or being a hologram, or dying right in front of my eyes.

I’m not sure yet if I’m Myka with Ophie’s memories plugged into me somehow, or if I’m both of us. I guess it’ll be a while before that settles. As far as I can say right now, though, I’m okay. And I’m happy.


	15. Chapter 15

“Oh my god, HG, you’re a natural,” Pete said, raising his phone and taking a picture of Helena with his new-born daughter. “Every time I pick her up, she just cries. You take her for five seconds and she calms right down.” 

They were standing in the Bed and Breakfast’s sun room. Pete had moved into town with Kelly at the beginning of the second trimester, and today was the first time that the little family was visiting the extended family in order to welcome the newest addition. In the kitchen, Leena and Jane were directing the catering people; the three new agents were standing in the living room looking somewhat uncomfortable; Trailer was weaving excitedly through everyone’s legs, which at least gave Artie something to do that wasn’t ‘standing around looking somewhat uncomfortable.’ Claudia, still not quite at ease with the idea that there would be a four-day old infant in their midst, not to mention that Pete was the child’s father, had volunteered to hold down the fort at the Warehouse, and Steve had immediately declared he’d accompany her, looking not much comfortable with the scenario either.

“I’m not a natural,” Helena said diffidently, shifting her grip on little Sammie’s leg to settle her more comfortably against her chest. “I had to learn this, which means you can, too.”

“But-” Pete began to protest, only to be interrupted by both Kelly and Myka vocally agreeing with Helena. “Alright, alright, ladies! Jeez. Okay, okay, show me that hold again, will ya?”

When Helena had sent Kelly and him on their way outside, daughter safely ensconced on Pete’s arm, she turned and saw a very peculiar expression on Myka’s face. Her eyebrow rose sharply. “ _You’re_ going to carry it,” she said in a tone that made it very clear that this wasn’t open to discussion. 

Myka blinked a little guiltily. “What do you mean?” She cast a quick look around the room, but it was unnecessary – they were quite alone. Trailer was barking in the garden, welcoming Pete, Kelly and Sammie, and Artie could be heard from the kitchen, haranguing either the caterers or the new agents.

“Our child,” Helena sighed, then grinned. “This isn’t the first time you’re thinking about it. I’ve seen your speculative gazes all through Kelly’s pregnancy, you know.”

Myka blushed furiously. “I just…” Her voice dropped away. Then she shrugged, looking helpless. “Yes, okay, so I wonder sometimes. And seeing you holding Sammie just now…” She bit her lip. “I mean it’s not like I’m totally _against_ having kids. It’s more of a ‘not now,’ you know? I mean, you and me… I want to enjoy that. Us. I want to enjoy us being in a relationship. Now that we can, you know, with all the timey-wimey shenanigans firmly behind us and Jazz and De’Shawn and Rose here to help with retrievals. I want to go on more vacations with you, I want to finally build our house back there,” she waved to where they had acquired a piece of land behind the Bed and Breakfast. It was currently being cleared of trees, and construction would begin in a few months, Helena knew, but it seemed that Myka was impatient already. “I want to-” Myka broke off, and her colour deepened. 

When she didn’t go on, Helena slowly walked towards her, head tilted and hips swaying. “You want to… what, exactly?” she asked in a sultry tone of voice.

“Not that!” Myka blurted out. “I mean, not now,” she amended. “God.” She ran a hand across her forehead, then through her hair. “What I mean is…” she looked around the room again, then closed the distance to Helena in two quick steps. “I want to marry you,” she whispered. “I mean I know it’s not legal in South Dakota, and I-” the rest of her sentence was cut short when Helena kissed her. 

“I do,” Helena whispered back when they broke apart. “Want to marry you, too,” she added with a chuckle when a confused frown ran across Myka’s brow. 

“Oh good,” Myka grinned. “I was a bit nervous, you know. I’m glad Pete marrying Kelly gave us opportunity to talk about marriage as a general concept, so that I got an idea if you even wanted to get married at all.” There was another kiss, then Myka pulled back suddenly, frantically digging into a pocket. “I forgot!” She held up a small box and sighed. “One thing. I decide not to plan _one_ thing,” she shook her head and rolled her eyes, “and it all goes south.” 

“You didn’t plan giving me this?” Helena eyed the box, trying to sound amused, finding that she was suddenly short of breath.

“I didn’t make a plan for how I’d ask you,” Myka confessed. “It’s part of me trying to go with the flow every now and then, you see? I just figured I’d find a quiet moment in all of this-” she nodded towards the glass door to the living room, behind which the three new agents could be seen, now talking to Jeannie Lattimer, who had taken an instant liking especially to De’Shawn when he’d started signing to her. “-and just… ask,” she finished with another one-shouldered shrug.

“Technically you haven’t yet,” Helena pointed out helpfully. 

Myka lightly punched her shoulder. “I was getting around to it, you know. Even though I already know your answer.” She shook her head again. “One time,” she sighed again. “ _One time_ of going with the flow, and-” Again, Helena interrupted her with a kiss. 

“Ask me,” she whispered into Myka’s ear when she was done.

Behind her back, she could feel Myka fiddling with the box. Then, “Helena George Wells, will you marry me?” One arm came around, one hand came up, holding a simple gold ring with a simple diamond. Helena looked a bit more closely – at first glance the stone had seemed pentagonal, but now she saw that it was round. It was mounted in something pentagonal, though – slender, understated, reminiscent of- “An apple blossom,” Myka said quietly. “Stop looking and start answering the question, Wells.”

There were so many things Helena wanted to say. A smart retort to Myka’s demand, a comment on the ring’s beauty – a million possible replies ran through Helena’s head, and yet, “I do,” she simply repeated her earlier words. 

“Good,” Myka stated again, and pulled her into another kiss. One arm held Helena firmly around the waist, the other reached for her hand; and with a good amount of wordless communication, never breaking their kiss, Myka slipped the ring on Helena’s finger. 

The unmistakeable sound of a phone camera made them both turn round. Leena was standing in the doorway, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. “Congratulations,” she said quietly, and winked at them before turning and leaving again. 

They both exhaled. Of all the people in this house at this point, having it be Leena who ran in on them was the best possible outcome. 

“It is beyond time we moved out,” Myka groused, and Helena nodded. This time, their kiss was shorter than the last had been. “Can I ask you something completely different, though?”

“Yes?”

“When you said earlier that I’d be… you know. Carrying our baby. If we even… I mean if we decide to… do that.”

“Yes?”

“Why? I mean, um… is there any reason for that?” Myka sounded simply curious, not disapproving. Her expression turned suddenly anxious. “Is it because of your Bronzing?”

“Oh! No. It’s not that.” Helena said quickly. “I simply hated it,” she continued. “Being pregnant, I mean.” She ran a hand across her brow to chase away the frown that had taken up position there, then threaded her fingers through her hair. “Don’t misunderstand me, please – I loved Christina, and I was beside myself with joy over having her. It wasn’t even a particularly ghastly pregnancy, as these things go.” She leaned back slightly to look Myka fully in the eyes. “I just did not enjoy it, and resented that everyone expected that I would. To be inhabited by another being felt odd at first, when it was barely more than a concept. The more my pregnancy impacted on my body, though, the more averse to it I became.”

Myka nodded, her eyes showing that she understood. “Yeah, I get that,” she said. She smiled the lopsided smile that Helena loved so much. “I’ll keep that in mind. If and when I think about procreating, that is,” she amended. “Which is not now, and won’t be anytime soon,” she added.

Helena kissed the corner of Myka’s lips that had come up when she smiled. “Good,” she murmured. “Because I fully agree with your outlines about vacations, building a house, and other relationship activities.” She leaned back again, momentarily concerned. “It’s not a problem if we wait, is it? In terms of… fertility?” 

Myka grinned. “Nope,” she said. “I’m nowhere near too old yet. And according to my check-up last summer, I’m completely healthy. So no worries on that front.”

“Good,” Helena repeated. 

“Again, that’s if we decide to go that way at all,” Myka said. “Nobody says we have to.”

“Oh, Jeannie does. Your mother, I mean,” Helena hastily corrected when Myka looked over towards the living room, where De’Shawn and Jeannie were still talking vigorously. “Or at the very least she continues to lament that Tracy hasn’t announced a pregnancy yet.” She ran her finger down Myka’s cheek to get her full attention again, and added, “Which doesn’t have any bearing on what we decide to do, of course.” She smiled a little wistfully. “I can’t say I haven’t thought about having another child; the years I had with Christina were a marvel, and we could savour all those things that her being abducted prevented me from experiencing. You know,” Helena lowered her voice as if imparting a riveting secret, “puberty.”

“Oh God,” Myka murmured, closing her eyes briefly. “I hadn’t even thought about puberty.”

“They don’t stay this small for very long,” Helena nodded her head towards the garden. On cue, they heard Sammie starting to wail again.

“Which means they gain the ability to tell you what’s wrong instead of simply screaming,” Myka said. 

“Positive thinking, darling,” Helena agreed. “Best way forward.” She ran a fingertip across the band that now adorned her finger and smiled. It felt new now, but she had no doubt whatsoever that in time she would grow accustomed to it, to the point where she’d miss it whenever it wasn’t there. An apt metaphor for the woman who’d given it to her. “I love you, my Myka.”

Myka Ophelia Bering, who’d been gazing out of the window with a small, speculative frown, looked over at her in surprise. Her smile came up like the sun after a long winter. “I love you too, Helena.”


End file.
